I
My fork casts a net
over food prepared for me
by other people’s hands
In floating kitchens
my nets come back empty
the gravy thickens into a dirty puddle
In the supermarket
I am lost
my gleaming ribbed charge and I
wander despondently
trying to decipher
the meaning from the glare
The potato just a thing
with too many eyes
tomatoes plump and mocking
Ladies fingers beckoning with
empty promises
an aubergine cold and hollow
Once comforting in its incarnations
Melanzana
Eggplant
Berenjena
Food in its multiplicities
a strange continent
and my visa application
has gone missing
II
Something has stirred
carrots greet me
orange with possibilities
Kernels burst from their
silken wrappers,
a cabbage crinkles with mirth
My fingers tremble
with the beauty of the
first cut
that reveals designs
that the recipes do not
I slice thinly, sauté
Add and taste
sprinkle and whisk
We come together
To follow i knead
my cool hands
ensuring pastry with bite.
Lisa D'Onofrio
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