watching the boil creep
across a slick and unfitted river—
the black pulses, white noise,
dried beans caught, roiling—
I worry I will have missed a step,
in the end,
that they will neither soften nor cook.
intuition is fear / proven right.
I bear that taut, mealy bean,
my teeth grinding into premonition,
the taste reedy and small—
I pull handfuls of muddy unsuccess
out of the still-hot water
and eat the whole ruined batch,
willing myself to choke.