Chocolate lives on a slab of New Hampshire granite
hewn from the moody Whites an hour North
of where I’m cutting, melting, tempering gently
with a metal spatula.
Carlos made the chocolate far from here
in a neat small kitchen in Guatemala City
with cacao that is young and as old
as chocolate will ever be.
I’ll make bars and bonbons today
watching my expressions in a mirror
of molten darkness against sparkly
quartz flecks of the gray-brown stone.
