The instructions in bold letters state:
Serves 6. I consider the powder mix and milk
cycling in the saucepan, like Megan’s representational
designs of lemon trees. She is six years old
and reconciled to wait up for dessert.
I’m not really sure which direction to stir
with the whisk, and she’s not exactly my niece.

Megan gives me lessons on her mother:
the stovetop is starry night, the plastic cup
is gas station, the woman waiting tables is America.
We discuss the basis of courage: it’s all
in the chocolate pudding, she says. In rare letters,
her mother once wrote it’s the only thing
Megan manages to keep down when she’s ill.

Later, I read the wanted ads aloud because
that’s what her mother recited nightly to help her sleep.