Two Romanian American Poems
Melangeur
The manual couldn’t be clearer about how even moisture
trapped in sugar could ruin the melangeur,
so when the granite wheels screech and some unseen
plastic insert breaks, you anger, but decide not to let
an inattention so small dictate how you should love.
Perhaps the cacao nibs weren’t dry or hot enough.
You scoop the coarse paste into a bowl
and step into the tub. Breasts and belly enrobed
as in armor, you dream yourself Thalestris,
the last Amazon queen whose sultriness survived
though her historical presence remains disputed.
You whittle desire into song. Don’t turn on the faucet,
don’t want the water rushing to waste you.
Tempering
to temper: to bring to a suitable
state by heating and cooling
Condé Nast promises to let me in
on the Best Chocolates from Around the World
but I already know where to find it.
The melangeur’s granite wheels have stopped
grinding their teeth and the notes
rising from our cellar enrobe your body
with the elsewise, earthy, sweet
clover hay finish of Cuyagua nibs.
We know each other’s melting points
and have perfected the technique:
cool down, bring back the heat,
repeat, subdue excess
till molecules bond
into an adagio so smooth
we snap as only the best bars do,
and call that ravishment.
