mother tongue is the one you count in
I have a microwave that’s also an oven.
its fake versatility already makes me resent it.
but once I craved gratin
rushed downstairs
to where they sell the store brand cooking cream
and a pair of scissors
to cut the corner that should have been there
at the top of the carton.
I found only a red plastic cap
climbed back up
peeled, cut, stirred, poured, sliced
googled, heated, thought I got it
enticed, pressed, turned
waited.
the gratin emerged.
5:30 p.m. and I missed
the first sunny day of spring
and a call —
a foreign country code
probably a troll
but the number wouldn’t let me go.
two three two three four o.
there were days when I recited this number by heart.
my glasses lie next to me
mocking the memory I’ve lost
to the weight of the present.
if I had woken up in the present
maybe I could have calmed a terrified elder
answered a wary TV reporter
in a language that once was mine
listened to the silence of a dead line
whispering hello?
fading into the echo of that h
that +33 never summon me to utter
mumbled an old phrase:
sorry, wrong number.
I type in the username and password
I hope I once chose for my skype account
ten dollars and three cents
virtual money in a currency I’ve never earned
to use it — fees grow
two three two three four o.
a number I know.
Hello?
Hello.
a middle-aged woman
a clerk
maybe at an embassy
or just a mistake
how does a mistake drift free
from elsewhere to +33?
Yes?
I got a call from this number.
I didn’t call anyone.
Two hours ago. Who am I speaking with?
No, I didn’t call.
[and why insist? it’s just a foreign number and you’re burning US dollars chasing a blunder.]
My name is Rony, I live in France.
Someone from this number called me.
Rony?
Mom?
I didn’t recognize your voice.
Neither did I.
I must have pressed it by accident.
I thought something happened.
No, all good.
Yeah. All good.
Well, this is costing me a lot.
Okay. Bye.
this time, not the store brand
but the pricey organic stand
yeast and a fancy chocolate bar
Japanese vanilla and buckwheat flour in a Mason jar
eggs and butter laced with French sea salt
went up, wiped my face, sought
crushed, spilled, stirred, improved
balanced, improvised, removed
sat down.
waited.
recognized —
the scent of a simple chocolate cake
spreading from the microwave-oven
rising through electric heat like foam
wandering like the memory of numbers
playing tricks like home.