slush piles.
Perhaps I ought to invent a pedigreed persona whose name and attendant names I might append to my words. 'Peter Clarion, who has studied under Bly Hass McClure and Merwin, received his M.F.A. from both Yale, Iowa, and has lived, as the son of a diplomat, all around the world. He currently teaches at... and once totally made out with Adrienne Rich.' Clearly I am not confident either in the impartiality of my presumed readers nor the quality of my work. The year of rejections of my short stories submissions still stings, I guess, and I hate entering any situation helpless as to the outcome.
I will honor my pledge, though, I will send out my poems, Megan. Have you?
The yoghurt was not inadequate; my expectations were ill-considered. The thicker consistency found in store-bought yoghurt is either the result of thickening agents, like gluten, or by the 'Greek' method, which is simply hanging it in a bag and letting some of the whey drip out. The flavor is bright and fine. I am satisfied.
Today the feta will be ready to brine. Today the chevre will be ready to suspend.
My tools: a screw set into false wood paneling, supporting an inside-out pillowcase tied and hung with a bit of string left over from trying down our belongings in the back of the truck that carried us 'cross country and a glass bowl to catch what little whey is left after I used the majority of it in a pot of beans I have going in the crockpot.
Last night, in the poor and strange kitchen light, it all seemed so ramshackle, so essential that I felt like I was staring at a scene from before creation, at an eggshell, easily broken and forgotten in the emergence of what it dreamed into existence.
The camera did not like the light and exaggerated the shaking of my hands, nor did it know quite where to focus.
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