Dreams of antiquity are sweet beneath the skin of fruit,
auspicious oranges, passionate apples, whose goodness
spring forth from a porcelain bowl of low relief garlands
like a fountain in this marble metropolis.
Surrounding the gingham acropolis, forks pair off with knives
and take long crumb-spilling strolls across silver platters and salvers.
Young sugar cubes kneel by wizen salt and paper,
to venerate its ivory tower shakers.
Yet, baked in a fever on these antique plate grounds--
a glass and metal fort with its high-rise refrigerator and clamorous blender turrets--
dust heaps of flour,
sticky blocks of apple cores,
and yoked egg shells;
these are ingredients of homemade angst-coat tussles.
The portcullis chopping boards are drawn up
to wilted walls that pulse with the crackling waves of heat.
The billowing scent of death pervades like burnt golden apples.
Aside from the ticking of the timer and low grumblings, rumbling
from the oven like tart anticipation,
silence sleeps a room away.
Sudden, out from the motherly guise of delicious baked gifts,
the oven throws open its grills, and in a rush of torrid breath,
catapulting slices of bitter crust singe the dishwasher,
hardened spears of apple mar the microwave,
chocolate spitfire fly like a thousand arrows blotting out the face of tea kettles.
To the belligerent blaring of the smoke alarm,
swelling from metal pans, the hot melee of red and brown chunks
charge like gore-glorious Achaeans, flaring out of the Trojan horse.
A culinary tragedy in the aftermath
of everyone falling asleep on the homefront.