Cookbook

I decided to believe in God. There, that took care of it. 

In the open air market I bought a salmon and carried it home.

The kitchen was a room of souls—my grandmother, long dead, 

whispered about the fish; about baking it in paper, 

I heard the word “shroud” and it seemed right. 

In life she warned everybody against vanity.

This is how you cook a fish—perhaps you bed it in dill—

but it’s the soul, the shadow, the minutes of a life

you’re arranging in a yellow electric kitchen 

with your moist insensible hands.