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.