Fifteen cerebra hibernate,
waiting to kickstart a summer which I cancelled
by snapping the stem and cutting the ribs away.
I threw them out to fillet and sliver a cerebellum
which folded onto a fused skull
painted with its age and experience.
Green was too young to do anything but char,
and orange was the slower, mellow flame,
not that there’s a difference.
The oily grain of a Coke can
sinks to meet itself at the bottom of the pot,
washable only into dying vegetables and into water
peppered with salt and garlic and left to simmer
for two hours and a half on medium high
until it scribbles and scatters its name
over the tongues it shortcircuits.