Angel Hair

[geoff]

V. 2

Angel Hair

Yolk soaks into flour,
dough blooming in powdered palms.

Caked with the bones of pasta,
fingers shape the skeleton

round on the butcher block counter,
flat under the rolling pin

as fire hums blues to stainless steel;
a guttural vibrato whispered into steam.

Capellini is born under a bad sign,
each angel hair untangled by a gentle knife’s kiss

and dropped into a boiling dead sea
the way a farmer seeds a pasture,

expecting a field of corn
from an acre of upturned earth.



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Version 1

Il Cuoco

As yolk soaks into flour,
dough blooms from enriched grain
cupped in his powdered palms.

Fingers, caked with the bones of pasta,
shaped the skeleton—round on the butcher block
counter, flat under the rolling pin,

as fire hums blues to stainless steel;
a guttural, throaty vibrato whispered into steam.
Capellini is born under a bad sign,

a knife’s gentle kiss
separating each thin strand
of angel’s hair from the mass

before the boiling pot froths
under the weight of creation
stirring in its stomach.