The Microwave

There was nothing the microwave couldn't do:
Watered oats hardened, imperceptible,
Into oatmeals, rocky, mountainous
Glaciers of cream cheese, callous
In the deserts of the freezer, by dessert,
Melted into dunes; sometimes water,
Stirred by the ineffable, would swoon a teabag
Into whirlpools of sailing wrath, and the gentle herbs
Scattered through the liquid boiling
Like Zephyrus scatters dust of snow. Always

The microwave was inscrutable, cold -- a removable
Heap of metal, spinning plate,
The doomed electron's disco tail. The window
Was the screen of screams, eyeboils and fancy craniums
Cancerous with a swelling god, tantrums, insanities
Beyond the the monotone whirr of the voice, sirenic
Fancies. In the universe of the microwave
It is always high tide, and these tsunamis wreck their own
Devestations of change, making what never was
The impossible is.