Pizza Crust by Steve Sibra

This is the story of a pizza crust

told in the form of a recipe

or that’s what they want you to think.

 

The family history of this enclave

would make the happy clams slam shut.

My ancestors were like young children

who found an old fashioned bicycle

rusting in the thick grass;

they climbed on and could ride it instantly –

but were never able to get off.

 

Far off in the dead dog night some tortured creature howls

too piercing to be ignored –

in fact it ignites and excites me

and I dream myself back to the printed page.

“Three cups all-purpose flour” — a revelation

How many purposes can flour serve?

Will it truly answer all of one’s needs?

Or is it simply hanging around hoping to get a shot

at the active dry yeast

There is dew on the lily in the bread pan tonight

 

You have had your way with the olive oil —

it is surely all a downhill slide from there.

Stand too long in the oven’s hollow glow

and you will be baked into an unleavened statue

With no uses at all, beyond the obvious

scapegoat

harlot

A sad sack of frozen peas, now a tragic thaw

its brains turned to sickly green mush

it’s another lesson never learned

If you fall from the horse, get back on

and ride – just not in the same direction

or with the same dreams

Those thoughts which crawl like spiders out of the wet dough

smeared behind them, the trail of your pain.

 

And in the end, what is pizza anyway?

A few twists of broken crust

a made-up food

the Liar’s Meal

like the beating Heart of God

it is universally revered.

For every nation dines upon it

yet none will claim it as their own.

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