The divine crone
hovers over a
pot of something
cooking—
her age has given
her an endearing
hump, extending
her head just far
enough to smell:
peas and bacon,
roux and carcasses
of all sorts,
and herbs.
Hands tucked behind
herself, she asks
those ‘master chefs’
provocative questions
damn well knowing
the answers—
she probes them
like a roast.
Benevolent mistress,
sideways comic
of queenly stature,
throwing recalcitrant
appliances on the floor—
this curly-haired
connoisseur of
humanity’s delicious
desires—
virgin oils, fresh
flesh, vegetables, dirt
just washed off—
how she honors an
integral ingredient.