Iron Skillet

For Molly Peacock

Inky hair drapes

around her lyric machine

like a chunky kitchen rag

concealing a crux:

what is the most important thing?

Tipping a ticking head

she sucks in nine million words.

Ringlet rolls of syntax

smoke: curl and compress.

Words in her tongue veins,

like gooey yolk

seep from buds into batter,

and a mind-spoon stirs

the sifted flour and blueberries.

With vigorous ease she flips

little iambic pancakes

on an iron skillet.

Where do I get mine?