Nothing tastes better than poetry.
Slow-cooked in its juices,
rhymed with flavors like my mother
used to make with her mottled
hands and mind firm as risen
dough baked that long in the oven.
Nothing matches those flavors,
that spicing, sitting by the cosy hearth,
or in front of a raging fire frozen
in fear yet awestruck, the best visual
meal you ever had this side of heaven.
There’s no recipe that can be passed down,
no verb adequate to the hunger
every time you crack open the book
that carves your insides with a cleaver
and pulls out delicacies you never knew
you had to share with others. Yum!
Such delicious language you will not
forget. Your eyes open like full plates,
your mouth waters for another
serving of the holy, sizzling word.
