pots to prove them wrong, copper & stained
La Paella, skin chipped Le Creuset.
Knows, given heat given time,
the watched sauce will.
the resurrection between flat line
and roiling, the point at which
skin blisters, steamed or broiled, the hand
wrapped around a fry pan’s handle
fresh from the oven,
the way ice water shocks
further cooking of flesh. She pricks herself
with blackberry thorns, gets to the heart
of the patch, to juice & pulp of the matter,
still lucid after cracking
egg into bowl, top of her head
under cupboard door. But more than that
she is doll, soft with pins
meridian model looking to needle
her chi back to its canvas, chanting
A stick in the heel to hobble your wandering,
one in the ear to cobble your thoughts,
one to pierce the map of the heart
to show me
where you last fell in.