A SMALL WORLD

 

The rice is ready to become risotto
when it turns clear at the edges
and clicks around the pan like silica
gel packets at the bottom of a bag.
Water turns cornstarch into a non
-Newtonian fluid. A fifteen-step
recipe turns me into a wife.
I consider including inside jokes
in my vows. How Alex pretends
to snack on the peanuts packed
alongside his ammunition.
Dancing in the kitchen is one way
to quiet the alarm bells that go off
when I stare into the open fridge
for too long. Alex spins me away
from guesstimating bacteria and calories
and into “Everyday is like Sunday,”
bends me like the straw for tomorrow’s
smoothie. At the bottom of the grocery list
is a reminder to worry more, to remember
to not forget to steal firewood, just in case.
In the disaster movies we can’t stop
watching, the meteors are usually six
weeks to six months away. Alex and I say
we’d spend our last minutes fucking,
but I know I’d still get up to pee after
like they never show in the movies.

I like best the part in the first act
when all hope is pinned on a farmer
or college professor who gets whisked
away in a black van, their dinner
still simmering on the stove.
The CGI moon full enough to spill.