Dear hostage dear interruption dear unspent ink
Dear kitchen of half-baked unrisen and refusal to set
Dear poems that once-upon-a-current
tumbled cold and clear
Dear shy tremble
Dear bitter best-I-can-do
yearning and plea—
Once I was and am no longer
Lost dream last chance hoard and rot
snippet fragment phrase that came to naught
knots that will not unravel— once grease and salve
I am fumble distractible and doubt
Buffet of too many dishes—
what my mother knew by heart
what my daughter improvised— my plate
grows cold waiting to be prayed over
Chef nor poet I puzzle
what might nourish
spin imagination
and heal
Bleary inundated reader
weary plague-rankled muse
what world needs more words?
Previously published in ABQ inPrint.
