THE PANCAKE
From my mouth I release sounds Pam, pam, pam.
With my palms I drum on the counter.
Left foot bounces to the rhythm.
I do a pirouette.
I stand in a slight straddle.
Arms wide.
I catch my balance.
The corners of my mouth rise.
Bright white outside the window.
I grab the handle.
I pull it. Pull.
From inside I take out a jar.
With a golden cap.
From another drawer I grab a steel head covering.
War?
I turn my head, eyes like binoculars — no, just a joke.
I place the bowl on the counter.
I prepare for the cold.
I pat myself three times.
I grab the handle, pull.
It won’t budge.
I yank several times, gently of course, no stress.
That fridge in a sec…
Open.
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I scan the top shelf, move lower.
Oh, there it is.
They squeezed all the milk from the cow.
Poor cow.
She confessed everything.
The chickens stole all the eggs.
She probably doesn’t remember how many she had anyway.
I place the confession and stolen eggs on the counter.
Time for chaos.
Hmm, in what order?
Maybe like this:
Crack, snap. Glug, glug. Whir, whir…
Ready!
Where’s that racket?
Hanging on the hook.
This will be a hot match.
I grab it.
I practice forehand, backhand.
And serve onto the fire.
Crack.
Time for the beige liquid.
Temperature hisses.
Air bubbles burst.
Smoke signals from above the heated racket.
This is how my pancake comes to be.
From my mouth I release sounds Pam, pam, pam.
With my palms I drum on the counter.
Left foot bounces to the rhythm.
