Pancakes

by Olof Samuelsson

A ladle heeds the empty heat of the pan.
The hard sizzle turns soft as the batter crisps,
the edges curling into lips calcified
before they ever could speak.
Hisses bubble through the liquid center,
lifting the pale tarp in jets of steam.
Then one flip and death is even.
Time, now, is all. On the plate
a dull brown, freckled. As sugar flits
and settles on its seared down
and lemon juice sinks into its pores:
the clink of cutlery, the clunk of plates,
the scuttle of feet, the scrape of chairs.
On the counter, ages away, small mounds
of white, islands of flour. It can wait.