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Cooking Class with the Mayans
John Milkereit

Instead of watching the cooking channel in bed,
we watched Big Joe cook it live across the street.
Under low heat and overhead mirrors, betting
on ratios of pyramids How much of the Trinity is celery,
onion, green pepper? Sacrifices of little bodies
as if warriors fighting evil spirits. Wrists bent
with knives. Cutting board on a stone
counter, the tiny green hands of cilantro,
basil as dogwood’s twin sister, the interior hulls
of seeds, animal pieces feeding our souls.
How did the fish get so far inland? Stirring roux
is climbing stairs. We learned about flux,
energy as a slow burn. Do not use straight water.
If our tongues want to dance, then let’s find
a ballroom. We know cooking isn’t our forte—
that wasn’t the point: the heat’s in breaking open.

—
John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. HIs work has appeared in various literary journals including The Ekphrastic Review, Panoply, Naugatuck River Review, and San Pedro River Review. In December 2023, Kelsay Books published his most recent collection of poems, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover.

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