after The I Hate to Cook Cookbook (1961)
How scattered I am: post-spouse, with company coming;
in Florida in my earthquake gown, in my eelskin slingbacks
and electric mink stole. I tried to make
puff paste with sweating hands; butter
in the KitchenAid, covered in Everglaze;
apocalyptic looking and no one to stall.
Now egret feathers and alligators and gas
are gone; polar fur coats are all vintage
or bottle jobs and the corn is crawling even in the Bracken
and the Glades. But I'm up and dressed, at least; I make
of this doctored lambskin a dish of myself: big hair,
lippy, a little bit lush, maybe even horny. I'm going
to breathe in and replate the take-out
again, shake cocktails. I'm going to spread swampy,
an idea, a mangrove of the air.