Preparing breakfast, I first make tortillas, shaped like lily pads, pocked-marked as the moon’s surface. Next, I flash-fry frijoles, adding diced jalapeños, chunks of red onion, potatoes, and spicy salsa. I roll everything together, fatter than a cigar in a Wallace Stevens poem, and get ready to take a bite, when I remember that it is bad luck to eat a breakfast burrito alone.
midsummer morning—
searching the uncut lawn
for a four-leaf clover
Packed tighter than a logjam in a riverbend, the burrito, for the sake of future good fortune, begs an eating companion. I put in a call to Bashō, who arrives more rapidly than I would have expected. He tells me it was a good idea to invite him because, due to the burrito’s rotund shape, dense consistency, and strong juxtaposition of flavors, it should be shared.
long summer walk
holes in the soles of shoes
from the old north road
As we begin to eat, he tells me that he recently shared a bowl of udon noodles, another dish that demands company, with Emily Dickinson, where, between slurps, they happily chatted long past dark about bees, black birds, and the beauty of brevity.
full moon night
dripping with wash-water
plates in the rack
Bio: Keith Polette
