My husband is baking while Bill Evans
thinks his way through ‘Time Remembered’
and I become texture; ground sugar, and how
the mix sticks a little to his wedding ring.
He calls it alchemy and balances my humours
with rose water, coriander seeds. The cat
on my lap, its thin muscles tensing, heat,
the pressure of an idea working its way
through the pap and fluff of my brain.
Little almond discs tasting of the spice trade,
eaten under a blue moon with white port,
very cold, as we talk Apollo, astrolabes.