On Sunday the snow is white as sun. She drinks tea
        and learns history from cookbooks.
Greece: she crushes cardamom with the back of a
        spoon. Spain: she threads saffron
into a soup. It must be Sunday. The newspaper lies
        useless in its box, bringing only
halves of tales, treading an awful water. She wants
        to see Asia. Peel chestnuts
from their hulls, soak rice in big bowls, and squat
        over the New York Times.
By ten, she has read a wine list and discovered
        what the Spartans ate.
Leaders of old nations stand around her and break
        bread into small triangles.
They smear them with avocado and feed in silence
        while it snows. Their chins turn green.
Oil drips onto a spread of old dailies, she caresses
        the walls and rattles three spoons
for their sound. A woman in her favorite room
        rocks slowly through the morning,
moving her skin to the scent of breath, suckling
        four truths: one of spice,
one of lodestar, another of tongues, and a fourth
        of fantasies that never leave the chair.