Sunday Dinner

Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,

I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.

It is a production, 

each layer has a plan, to become part of

an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off

in red, whine and green.

Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle

and The Hidden Reality outlines details

of jitters, making energy and arrays.

I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and

condenses sugars.

Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together. 

I close my eyes for the first bite,

forgetting all I threw in.

I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember

this often tastes like M-theory.

I must have forgotten the salt. 


Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.