FOODChair

On Being Called To Prayer While Cooking Dinner for Forty

When the heavens and the earth

are snapped away like a painted shade,

and every creature called to account,

please forgive me my head

full of chickpeas, garlic and parsley.

I am in love with the lemon

on the counter, and the warmth

of my brother’s shoulder distracted me

when we stood to pray.

The imam takes us over

for the first prostration,

but I keep one ear cocked

for the cry of the kitchen timer,

thrilled to realize today’s cornbread

might become tomorrow’s stuffing.

This thrift may buy me ten warm minutes

in bed tomorrow, before the singer

climbs the minaret in the dark

to wake me again to the work

of thought, word, deed.

I have so little time to finish;

only I know how to turn the dish, so the first taste

makes my brother’s eyes open wide--

forgive me, this pleasure

seems more urgent than the prayer--

too late to take refuge in You

from the inextricable mischief

of every thing You made,

eggs, milk, cinnamon, kisses, sleep.

-- Patrick Donnelly