Canticle of the Back Burner

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Suffer unto me the watery broths
that mutter and bubble into chowders,
the stones of dried beans, the chili powder.
Let cahoot the greens’ grease and marrow froth,
the briskets and yams jittering tin tops.
Bring cream’s thickening burble and sputter,
the scents of garlic and holy butter,
tomato’s splatter and the crusted chop.
Toss in corn starch, palmfuls of white flour.
Let steams cloud winter windows, pot lids hiss,
collards wilt through the slow summer hours.
Bless then the blessed patience of the dish,
the sweet roots, tubers, silver mottled meats
that thought and time have savor-salted. Feast.