Relationship with my eight year old son strained
like raw spaghetti rigid in the sink
and when you toss those toothpick noodles against the wall
The sauce burnt on the stove
even though I like the smell because it smells like I cooked something nice
like how I created my son without looking at a recipe
or the ingredients.
Who measures out sperm or eggs?
So here I struggle, while he stirs the pot
of boiling brain temperatures of mine
and racing heart.
The perfect dish of basil and mushroom spaghetti doesn’t exist
but getting my hands dirty and paste splattered on my apron
that I don’t even wear because my whole body is a canvas for stains,
is this process that at least
I can use to become better
making the dish of Life
sticky and sweet