Cornbread
No one here
but you and me and perfect
cornbread, steaming
in its iron skillet.
On the stove beside it, turnip
greens bubble, essential
to such union.
No other human,
just dog and woman
on Sunday night, alone.
I’ve proven the theorem
again, equation of
salt, baking soda, and powder
into one cup of meal, one
egg, and the buttermilk
I sniff, still okay five days past,
it’s tangier, just right.
Here’s the tricky part: heat
shortening in the skillet
as the oven temperature rises.
Be patient – work slowly –
and when the grease is hot, it will
bind the mixture, make the crisp
coat firm. Sixteen minutes
and it’s turned out like a dancer
on the green ceramic plate.
You get the first bite.
I kneel and pull apart the thin
wedge I’ve cut for you.
Just a dog.
Eye to eye,
remember when someone
told the puppies to hush?
Did you catch
a steaming ball of corn dough
in your dream?
Lick my fingers – it’s that good.
When he returns –
his hand, too.
