by Ethel Mortenson Davis
What is this chef, this cook
that comes to gather
strung out, grumbling
friends and relatives?
Is she not a mere merchant
of the kitchen?
An employee of a restaurant?
But no, I think.
A magician or alchemist,
one who binds up the disgruntled
by cooking magic.
Her creations stir in
the hearts of these people
a language of love
they had never felt before,
or ever will again.
Why, these two are speaking
when they haven’t for years.
I think it must have been
that rare French wine, or,
perhaps that unusual, roasted
animal from the forest.
fourwindowspress 