It is impossible
to leave my mother’s house
with an empty belly.
If it’s Wednesday,
she is making tamales,
and if it’s Sunday,
it’s black bean soup,
& my oldest brother
is sneaking extra bacon into the stockpot,
& you might not think bacon
has a place in black bean soup,
I swear,
it tastes like forty loaves and two fishes.
My oldest brother chopped onions
like he was cutting their hair.
My brother made the best goddamn ribs
you’ve ever had in your life.
My brother never ate a single meal
he cooked in that kitchen,
his body a different kind of hungry.
when I said it was impossible
to leave that house empty,
I wasn’t counting the years he left
& did not come back.
addiction
is not the kitchen fire I was warned of.
It is not that gentle in its timing.
doesn’t torch everything you love
at once
and leave you to rebuild it,
instead,
it burns the bread,
& then the casserole,
& then the photo albums,
& then
the way my dad used to laugh
when we were all home together
playing Boggle
& we could not smell the smoke,
& I don’t understand
how people can say the word heaven
like it isn’t a swear word,
like it doesn’t make my mama gasp,
press her whole hand into her mouth,
& wonder who taught you
to say that shit in polite company,
because really, when you say heaven,
it’s just a shined-up way of saying
so either way,
we’re left holding not-enough hands
& trying to remember
how to set a smaller table.
when my brother was like four years old
he sprinkled a packet of taco seasoning
onto the soil in our front yard,
& he waited
for the taco shells to grow.
my mom woke at like 5 AM
to kneel in the front garden
& push six taco shells
into the soft dirt there,
& when he saw them, he said, I knew.
I knew that they would grow here.
& we did not bury his body.
but if we had,
I know nothing would have grown there.
tell me again
about the part where grief
is not my name.
I will tell you,
my parents have not kissed on the lips
since the nineties.
I will tell you,
there is so much I did not say
out of respect for the living.
I will tell you,
one of the first rules
of working in a kitchen
is you never try to catch a falling knife.
but lord, if we didn’t try anyhow.
lord, if we aren’t a family of good intentions
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
amandla
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
