it will probably surprise no one

It will probably surprise no one that what I’ve been trying to do my entire life is remember who I am

And nothing reminds me more than the kitchen table. The stove, my grandmas hands, my grandpas fish. Ratty placemats and the devotional before prayer. How gathering with people who share my name feels like holy exercises in love and how feeding those people with the recipes of generations before me feels like praying out loud, on purpose, and in their name.

I write poetry and essays, I have Poetry Eyes for life, and I want to feed you.

I want to feed all of you with my heart.

Smoky, understated, simmered, tempered, sugared, candied and browned. My heart is savory, salty and has had the absolute shit beaten out of it. She’s tender. The sear is legendary, my burnt ends – out of this world. And when you pair me fresh basil? Olive oil and drippings from tacos down my forearms? God, she’s translucent. 

She sings when paired with wine, and curdles at the thought of that one rice dish, mom, you know the one. French dressing is something I will not ever own. It drown everything I understood as good when I was six. 

This heart craves beets, not unlike the pounding of each and every beat in the bass drop. We want vibrations, reverberations, iterations and cantations. To feel the earth beneath my feet as we pound all of this to the ground.

This heart that lives inside of me, she knows the difference between raw and well done.


This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.

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