Gist

 poem


the gist of her pudding,
and the rice in her swampy bottom
gave off, emitted, released, birthed an
goddesslike aroma that drooled my
taste buds, swept my broom off its
spindly feet, and cat-eyed made narrow,
then wider, much,
my pupils.
Here when she cooks and smells, smells
fill the house from crook to cranny
to gable, even the spiders in their cobs
tremble from fine clenching desire.
Passing sweet here with her, her
copper pans polished to a fare thee well,
spit shine, honey? Toast?
Seated, not satiated, tantalized.
How I could lay you upon this table right now,
and praise the hued Dutch hex sign
gracing your lintel.