by Lucas Diggle

Violet pill
bomb, bonfire
inside you —
the water snake’s wake
on the reflecting
pool, the broken-winged
kingfisher in
your Zen garden.
Memory —
enemy of stillness.
Swallow,
wait for it,
wait for a time
when you can’t
remember
what it was to say
gone.

by Lucas Diggle

In an antique shop on Market,
I saw a little Navajo bracelet

set in sterling, the amber stone
glowing against the glass.

You opened it and said, You know me!
as though I had mistook you

for a millennial buying chickens
with her tax return, like I didn’t know

you were a hummingbird
blown west of White Shell Mountain.

by Lucas Diggle

is best baked in an iron skillet,
whole prunes peppering its surface.

Don’t tell the foodie, that feeble fetishist,
or it will end up on a blog with some

thirty-something graphic designer
in a chef ’s coat hosting friends,

not a working cook among them.
It’s a sweet custard, a little thinner

than cold cream, forced through a sieve
and poured over the prunes.

But keep the photographer out
or it will end up in a spread

next to Ligurian fishermen
banging out bagna cáuda

in a rusty pan in Piedmont.
Bake it in a medium hot oven

until a crust forms around the ring
of the skillet and the surface

is slightly dark.  Don’t worry about
aprons, measures, or amendments,

just make the damn thing, and remember
foodie’s just another word for thief.