between food and poetry.
A well-cooked meal is a muse--
paeans on paella, scones of scorn,
the turn of verse as marinated
steaks sear with grill lines,
the iamb from shaking sea salt on lamb.
Good food renders us speechless and,
in that moment, the ingredients for poetry.
The poet, like the chef, wakes up in the morning
and goes to the market, finding choice
and fresh edibles, before the others get to them.
We could live off of intravenous
glucose pumped into our stomachs,
pre-digested concepts that pass for food,
sustenance that does merely that: sustain.
We could shuffle off our mortal coils
without ever having crispy onion rings
or kielbasa covered in sauerkraut.
We could manage with newspaper
fat, tablets of tabloids, three-second
sound bites, snippets that impress upon us
less speech rather than leaving us speechless,
the instantly accessible loaf of banality.
We could,
but we find room, always room,
for that everyday indulgence,
for that which is utterly beautiful,
for that which sings
like bread still quivering from the oven.
Once you have tasted gourmet,
there's only one way.
Once a verse touches your language,
salts your understanding, brightens your eyes
like honey does after a fast,
you know what hunger and poverty is.
O how much flavor, breadth, and depth we lack!
How little we feast and how much we snack!
O beet poet, standing on stage
reading your recipe for life,
peppered with reality, looking at us
with your glazed glare,
stop starving art with your open mic-
rowaved slam.
