What I can’t do with a good
sharp-pointed knife, I don’t need
to do. Family requirements keep it
in use. For when the mood comes
over me after a full day spent
in the dreary modern, stainless steel
means something to me, and so does
iron. My equipment is also the value
of thick women, of hands, of spices
to be mixed. Shiny or not, they are
my friends. Other tools fool me
occasionally with more ease than
you have been led to believe.
If I also had a freezing compartment
in the basement, a pressure cooker
far more useful than descendants,
I’d get an early start, would call you up
and say, “Be here in half an hour.
Come as you are.” And it would be
a party, the practical put away for
the mink coat, everything thoroughly
is the author of five full-length poetry collections, including Hunger Until It's Pain (Salmon Poetry, forthcoming spring 2023) and The Burning Where Breath Used to Be (David Robert Books, forthcoming August 2020). Her work appears recently or is forthcoming in Barrow Street, The Comstock Review, december, Michigan Quarterly Review, Terrain, Under a Warm Green Linden, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and elsewhere. ‘A Few Extra Flourishes That Cannot Be Bought’ is part of a micro-chapbook of found poems using phrases from vintage cookbooks. The words in this poem were sourced from: Coggins, Carolyn. Carolyn Coggins' Company Cookbook. First ed. Garden City, NY: Hanover House, 1954.