Raw Center

The gas burner hisses a blue, steady note

in a kitchen that smells like charred bread.

I scraped the black off the crust with a knife

and ate the soft, white failure instead.

The recipe said to wait for the shimmer,

to look for the oil to ripple like silk,

but I just dumped the onions in cold

and watched them turn to a translucent milk.

There is no one coming through the back door

to tell me the salt is too heavy or light.

It’s just me and the pan and the floor

learning how to stay hungry all night.