In the space between my face
I keep a cookbook in
a paradise- everyone’s been fed.
When I was six, I read of hunger-
I heard of mothers that cooked their babes-
When I was twelve (or even younger)
I pinched my skin to quiet the craves-
It’s an odd relationship- us and food
With culture woven inside the two-
Sugar’s poison, fat is ugly, bone-thin’s good-
Mirror-prayers, smoke-thin legs, curse the numbers
Beyond size 2.
It’s good for you.
I cherish cooking like it’s a poem-
A heavy warmth under my hands-
To flick the salt, and spoon the sauce, to heap the cheese, to grate
The meat, to slice the pepper holy cadence,
The smell of home inside the walls-
My mother’s always hated cooking.
I never want to let the stove run cold.
We all harbor our own traumas, of different empties,
Of different holes.
They say that food can reach the soul.
I want to learn how to stitch us whole.