Recipes of Coos River: Summer on the South Fork

is the title we chose for your cookbook.

A mouthful? Recipes are a funny thing.

They allow a level of precision into a home

where opacity often reins. We often only see river sand

underwater in our wakes. Recipes teach us ways

to fill myrtle bowls with more than the bounty

from cold winter soil amendments and spring rains.

The cookbook author is away.

My need for precision remains. The recipes are before me,

and all I want to do is forget—this day, this tray.

Not your laugh, the way you arch your right ear to hear,

nor your often wild-eyed attention to tasks

deemed time-sensitive, or your harried sounds

in the face of duties deemed unending.

Cooking on the fire pit rack takes work,

especially if a host’s helper is pretending.

I don’t see you at the end of the dinner table.

You would buy the freshest ingredients, prep, cook, and clean.

Now our table is unstable. What happened in between?

I guess the fishing line has changed its angle.

The net is low, but what’s below?

I saw the river current of your life run up a creek

and chase the greeting call of a hummingbird.

I’ve seen enough for one day. I think

I’ll make a myrtle-infused gin and tonic.

It’s a simple recipe. I’ll get it wrong.

You’d say—mistakes are a matter of taste.