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Cookin’

Annette Gagliardi

Clouds passing overhead are hot-muffin
mountains scorching the sky.

Each small puff of thought a disintegrating
cinnamon toast in warm milk.

It melts in your mouth,
slides over your tongue

and slithers down your throat
to collapsed in jellied ear canals.

Eyes that sniff sassafras and fern leaf tea are black
holes that gobble and expel a closet full of cats

chasing a belled figment. Each filament a tangled,
elusive myth on the threshold of truth.

Dreams sandwiched between night
terrors clog and clutter until there

is nowhere to flee save the deflated
cake-like comfort of bed glossed

with the iced gash of a morning
full of heady thunder clouds.

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