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      July 16, 2013PancakesRichard Krohn

      “Truths that are deep, not just I ate pancakes for breakfast.”
      —from an interview in
      Rattle #30

      For breakfast I ate pancakes,
      gluttony’s sweet third Circle of Hell spiraling
      the serene, unconditional love of Aunt Jemima,
      the first woman I ever had a crush on.

      I forked each layered mouthful,
      the stack giving way, springing back,
      pancake geometries held aloft,
      downed with Caribbeans of coffee.

      I cracked eggs into flour, a madman whisking rapture,
      edges of the cast-iron skillet welcoming
      the bubbling butter, the lava of batter,
      viscosity in a lovers’ spat with gravity.

      I wonder whether those who spotted UFOs
      above Roswell, New Mexico, had just eaten pancakes
      or if a disk as big as a pancake
      might hold all the world’s knowledge.

      Wouldn’t it be great if you could slap a flapjack
      in a DVD player and watch a thriller about the end
      of hunger, and for that matter aren’t pancakes
      the very way of life Homeland Security is protecting?

      I’d be content to spend my life on a pancake island,
      topped by tropical fruit, or in the mountains
      in a log cabin like the one on the syrup label,
      surrounded by ever-descending powdered sugar.

      Each evening I’d pull a pancake comforter
      up to my chin, and every morning
      bright and early, I’d eat a stack of poems,
      and they would taste just like pancakes.

      from #38 - Winter 2012