creeping down my bones,
across my dough punched hands.
I am feeble, blocked
by alien phrases, in recipes
that should be written out by hand,
that should console me,
but flow as foreign objects
cached in web fonts.
Mizu shingen mochi, the language of
an elder with dementia, or a twin,
not part of any glossary I know.
The punch of reminiscence,
a kitchen, hot with steam and
women curved along a stove,
impassioned with the fragrance of the farm.
The tricky Raindrop Cake instructions,
clinical and rich with jargon,
fade now, disintegrate before me,
the codes of comfort food
beseeching me instead.