by Gina Forberg
Her hand flat on the knife
she thumps the blade, cracks
the clove, peels away the skin.
She could design dishes the way
Daedalus created the labyrinth,
the ship’s sail, the mast.
She could thicken a gravy,
butterfly a beef tenderloin
flambé crème brulee.
She was drawn to the flame,
its heat, its candle shape color.
She liked its dangerous desire.
Icarus flew too close to the sun,
his waxen wings soaring, then falling
feather by feather into the sea.
She too wanted that high.
She wanted that intimacy with fire
even if it meant burning.