Hanna the Bride-Queen, the Queen-Bride, whichever, or both, folded then stirred, into one. Too much for this she thinks too short, heavybreasted body. Two loaves of her rolled, kneekneaded. Stuck in this kitchen as if honeyed to the floor. Now, take all of her worry and thinking and rinse, sprinkle liberally with allegory, just a pinch of parable, pat dry then let sit overnight on the porch amid winter. Wait for the rise. Hanna’s preparing a meal for her intended, for her groom and her king…least she could do. Israel, her husband, and her Messiah, too, in that he might not be a savior but he is always late — forever, I mean, he’s taking forever: he’s been arriving it feels for as ever long as she’s been cooking with the ticker, the timer’s long stilled. A watched pot never boils, only blackens. How once she’d dropped her birthdaywatch in the pot, then went out to buy a new exact one so he wouldn’t think she didn’t like it, or lost. King and groom, whichever I’m saying he’s taking his time. Bound to her bind. And if he’s to be her Messiah, then this kitchen must be her exile, too: as far as dispersions go, luxurious enough, though gone to waste in her longing (the entropic pleasures of a homegym, replete in its deplete with adjoining mediaroom) — houses and schools, then those places of worship known as nondenominational Temples, they ingredient themselves out of mold, whip and whisk themselves up at the outermost rim of the range, the stovetop the manual says, how she’d thrown it away, the accidental trash…lives line the brass burners, burbled from grease, congealed from years fat and day’s oil; roads paved of grout run the length of the middle island, gas and electric link the further exurbs of tiling grid with the hum of the refrigerator hub, lit under the whirring, whirling sky, which is the hood once the bulb’s been replaced. The longing hum of the fridge filling everything with an eerie motion, an activity, a progress, the formica, the metal and tile, sets their mixtures spinning, aswirl, stirring up these new kitchens in new houses grown within and as the eternity of her own kitchen, her old home, rooms hacked out of groutrot, faience, spiced earthenware, and the cupboard with china: kitchens sprouting up from the neglect of her Kitsch (it’s so hard to keep up, it’s so hard to keep up, it’s so difficult), to fill her house, which is the home of the world, with scents of their own, a whirlwind of waft: cooking, she’s cooking still, which is stirring then tasting then stirring again, all the while judiciously laying aside the best cuts for him, for Israel her husband and — and he’ll come, he will, he has to, imminent, it’s arrived, the kiss of his keys at the cheek of the door by the side…when the kitchens’ timers will become aligned — then stop all at once, stilled, their massed ticking will unravel hands of hands both chapped and chaffed, ungloved and how time will mean nothing anymore: no more preheating, defrosting, no more of this letting sit or soak overnights; how everything then will always be ready, in a preparation suspended, preparing into itself, weeping within ever deeper, spices of spices, tastings of tastes, and then, suddenly, the phones ring out on all the lines pitched as softly high as the smokealarm or the light, individually yearning, but when sounded simultaneously bringing only darkness, thick spoiled noise. Grniinrgrginnigr.
He’ll be late.
Goodbye, kiss kiss the hugging of lips, I love you, goodbye, the polymer baby’s replaced in its cradle; and, soon enough, late’s no longer an idea, a recipe’s template or mold made if from scratch, the limited, limiting face of a clock set as wide as time but wound tightly in spite: it’s more like a state, this permanent not — though soon, please, God, I hope soon. If it rings again, let him leave a message.
