A Poem from My Kitchen (in response to John Donne)

The afternoon
has been given over
to pancake making
and holy sonnets.

"Batter my heart,"
the poet says.
I pour a heart shape
on the griddle:
the left side.

How like a man
to absent himself
to the study
to hem, and fret,
and call for tea
and for God to crack him open.

How like a woman to
crack open eggs
And observe, as the
viscous slips,
a microcosm of the Trinity.

Hearten my batter,
three-person'd egg.