NAPO 29

A Recipe for Time

If only time were something

You could brew in a French press.

Every morning. If only days

Were beans you could grind up,

Sip and savor at your convenience

Or desire, warm and bitter,

Quickening the heart.

If only moments were made

While standing at the stove,

Learning how to use the molcajete

Just right, the pumice in your hand

As you grind an avocado

As you listen to another story

Of all the moments made within this basalt bowl—

Chipotle, that unnamable green sauce,

Ajo paste that makes the kitchen

Smell like home for days.

If only hours could be flipped

On the iron skillet like a pancake

With a syrupy I love you.

If only days could be created

In that stock pot full of beans,

Softening like hearts

As they soak in the spice of life.

If only minutes mixed like your recipe

For the perfect martini,

Four parts patience,

One part dreams,

a couple cubes of ice

to keep it fresh,

an olive, its branch.

Alcohol, too, heals most wounds.

If only this most precious thing

could be created from two hands,

whatever sits in the fridge,

the cupboard, the liquor cabinet,

the heart.

If only the open mouth

Of night didn’t swallow

So much of it, the empty belly of anger,

The hollow gut of regret

That demands more, more, more

Of this. Your hands ache.

Your brow sweats.

It’s impossible to make enough

Minutes, days, months, moments

To fill the kitchen table

And satisfy the wants of all,

The spinning, empty plates,

The bowls like open mouths,

The wine glasses halfway full.