He’s in surgery and I melt down butter, crack eggs, sift flour as if pie will preserve him. In the eye of the kitchen storm there is no surgeon’s scalpel though we have many knives with a taste for flesh. I’m told a little blood may hurt the cook but never the recipe and sweat is good for both, so I’ll gladly leak a little life onto this gaslit altar. I lose faith in the oven timer, check and recheck the pyrex vitals, eyes heat dried, and try not to mind the headlights burning through the blinds or the empty bedroom boiling just above my head. I know dessert won’t bring him home, but I still set two places in the unlit kitchen and let steam fill up the dark.

Bio: Garrett Stack