Tempest

by Laura Kaminski

I go out while all’s still
dark, reach for the bottom
of the towering pile of
clouds, tug it toward me, fold
and knead, quarter turn,
repeat, then set them back
into the sky for second
rising, preheat morning.

By eleven they’ll be
baking, separating into flaky
cirrus layers ready to melt
on the breeze-tongue
of noon. Done with early
pastries, I brush hands
against my apron,
scatter raindrops.

Time to take down the
Bugatti blender (seriously)
and the KitchenAid
girl-tractor, I want
this kitchen redolent
with ionic ginger, dark
substantial offering
for later.

Bring your own
cup and whatever’s left
in that tin of Imperial
Gunpowder. Step out
at four o’clock precisely.
Serve your
self.