Treasure Island

Francis Santaquilani


E.D.


E.D. ascend for me always,
Without end, in your kitchen
Suddenly frozen in mid-knead,
Leave your dough to rise,
Toss your apron aside,
Wipe the flour from your hands,
Float upstairs
With a fire in your head and
Lock your bedroom door.

E.D. descend for me always,
Without end, in white, slowly
Slowly down the curved staircase,
Glowing and soundless around
The bend and soundless on
To the kitchen again
To serve me always,
Without end, generous portions
Of your fresh bread, your fire
And possibility.

Submitted: Monday, October 10, 2005
Edited: Monday, December 12, 2011

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