Mom, just relax. Let me take you to a place where there are no bunions, no bruises, no violence, no Donald Trumps, no unhappy thoughts.
—Vivian Trommer, 10
Start with the scent of chanterelle cream sauce
still lingering from dinner. Throw in a few stars—
you can’t see them, but you know they are there.
Add a tickle. A giggle. A kitten-ish squeal.
Rub tenderly. Then hard. Then forget for a while
to rub. Add a hum, and the dark that can’t enter
the room. Add moon. And cocoon. An impending
soon. And the sound of the river never ending.
An inkling of joy. A hunch of perfect. A hint
of this can’t last. Choose that. Distill to precisely
this moment. Any sorrow or pain
that might wish to rise, it is only a background
flavor that shows up how sweet this magic,
how sometimes the best recipe is the one
that uses exactly what we have on hand.
