“A Recipe for Melting It Down”
Melting it down
is easy to do
on the stovetop.
Better if you have gas,
but most electric and flattops
still are controllable
and, more important, open—
unlike microwaves—
for stirring to ensure
even cooking and prevent scorching,
and for ventilating smoke
in the likely event
of open flame.
Melting it down
is harder to do
over a campfire
when you are in the woods
hoping to God
you find your calling
in a flash of moonrise and smoke,
or at least kick the habit
of self-destruction
through breathing and playing with leaves.
Melting it down
feels damn near impossible
in a car, particularly if you are living in it.
Pawn artists smell desperation.
But everything is possible
when you are living in a car,
like being mentioned later
in an inspirational story
that is not an obituary.
Here is how you do it,
wherever you are.
Listen, stop crying, breathe—
I’m drawing you a map,
what is a recipe but that?
Gather all your precious
metals and jewels—
family silver, gold soul, citrine scotch,
silver chloride electrodes from the medical tribe,
wedding bands from other people
who believed in such things
for reasons other than health insurance.
Other valuables, too—musical instruments
you’re not going to play again
because you’d just as soon
not make another sound.
Swiss Army knives
and all pretention of neutrality.
The Smith & Wesson you slept with
in place of the first husband,
almost-husband if you must know,
for half a year.
Take out a large saucepan.
Preheat with 450° of despair.
Preseason with sweat.
Bruise expectations
and pile into saucepan.
Simmer until walls are melted down.
Stir until just kidding, keep stirring
so expectations do not stick.
Things we thought we knew about ourselves
may float to the top. Separate them out
with bones after boiling for broth.
The pots and cinderblocks
are finally one now, and in the fading light
of sun, fire, and other performances,
I’m more and more certain
that somewhere here
is something we can use.
