More poetry sent to us by one of the poets who read at last night’s Art of Devotion opening:
I cook like my grandmother, whipping up a badass stew
from spare parts. Hers, variations on leached chicken
swimming in grease. Mine, resurrecting potatoes-on-the-edge
with a couple cans green chilé. I mince garlic as you read
to me, baritone against the percussion of popping oil.
Looking at you, I reach for the pot, char my finger.
I thrust my hand under the tap; you go on reading
as cold water seals the burn in a scar.
Like my grandmother, I cook to feed armies. She rallied
relatives, friends, strangers to divide the booty.
I have you. Like her, will I never learn
to cook for one? Or like Orpheus, would I follow you
to Hades and, failing, survive still? When you’re gone,
I’ll play your cd, seal my hunger in your voice.