; Ingredients

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; Ingredients

We’ll never make it to the bone.

;

At five years old, I wondered

how to spell letters. How do you spell “h” or “u”?

I asked my elders.

In the corners of a classroom,

I sat gouging notebooks, hoping to break

down sounds.

I uncrossed Ts, threw balls

from Is, and made kindling from M’s.

My teacher couldn’t answer. Who pulls

the puppetmaster’s strings?

she wondered in private.

;

When I was little

I thought making things from scratch

meant making the ingredients:

scraping the earth

into troughs, planting wheat,

sprinkling water, grinding flour,

picking sugar cane

I still catch myself thinking

using store-bought flour is cheating.

;

Levine’s angel butcher[1]

wields his cleaver to

dissect a child like a flower

After the butcher’s legs finish

jumping and twitching

he’ll notice he can’t

remove fog from the boy’s

retinas.

He can’t filet and cook

the storm

into summer

;

Capture a firefly in a mason

jar

to admire and examine its glow.

As hours pass and it flickers fast

understand

its battery will die and

your room will be dark.

the bug will be dead

in a jar that smells of spaghetti

and you still won’t know how

it broke the dark.

[1] Levine, Philip. “Angel Butcher.” New Selected Poems. New York: Knopf Doublesday, 2011. Print.

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