American Measuring Cup


It’s a grand two-cupper
masquerading as one,
not the simple tin
your grandmother used
in the Great Depression
to quantify the flour
or your Great Uncle Sam
held before him
on the streets of Chicago
soundlessly begging for change.
 
This is massive glass,
with demarcations so broad
it makes you want to round up
to the nearest half
in the way a leveled teaspoon
never could, not a crucible
to carry exotic spice
but the whole barrel,
the wheelbarrow counter,
the iron hod
with the molten batter
for a doubled recipe
fit for an overfed appetite.
 
 



Let Me Teach You about Eggs since Your Mother’s Gone
 

There’s a trick
to the snap-crack,
the fingernail break
and the brake of the wrist
and the hand jumping backward,
the clear and the yolk
tumbling toward the pan,
the cap of the shell flipping
in inverse to the flick
like the action of rifle brass.
They give you a dozen
to try in the pack.
Watch me,
and you will become adept
at picking out parts
of the shell with a fork.