A photon spends
a hundred thousand years
cooking in sun’s core
before emission as light.
A few untold trillions
snag the moon’s face
veiled by earth’s exhaust
while I watch the gurgle
of a chicken tagine.
My daughter dialogues
with plush dolls and my son naps
in grass-stained pants.
My wife lets the dog
into the backyard
and she bolts viciously
at a creature of evening,
real or not.
It is often bondage
that builds temples,
and though holiness
is not my industry,
I once envisioned greatness.
The timer sounds
and I add the olives,
I add the lemon zest.
Just then another photon
is released from its stewing.
I won’t see the absorption:
I am staring into the pot,
stirring the nearly scorched.
My mouth is wet with desire.

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