An Endless Hunger
In a geometry private as an animal’s
birth or death, I hold the trotter, a word—
a more sympathetic signifier
for a pig’s foot. I have never eaten
pig. Excuse me, pork. Each sign is a violence
muted, softened by nomenclature. I kiss
my cooking companion on the face, a real compañera
with daily bread in our mouths. Under stateless
stars, the outdoor kitchen stove breathes entrance
to another world. Food is a way
of resecrution. We speak of brown motherhood.
Blood makes embroidery patterns on tile.
The pozole and nihari recipes written in our palms.
I hold the limbs of the animal forbidden
by halal and kosher ancestors. Her body
smells of a distant ocean, bold turmeric
hennas my friend’s fingertips as they kite
around various spices to make blessings
into emperor's soup. The feral soul
of an animal prayed for with purpose.
The Nawabs, jeweled in power, at breakfast,
each sop of pruney fingers in soft marrow
of an animal’s end running
through hands and bread. Nihari (نهار)
from Arabic for morning, an aubade
of the body. We eat, again. Starving artists
dark bodied and blessed. She turns on the flame
for a pot just with chicken. Pozole was once made
of human flesh. We believe people are a type of maize,
she says lining hominy into a vertebrate.
Communion as simple as our metal spoon.
We always are eating
this Earth and life’s matter.
The roti and tostada as round
as a horse’s eye or the moon.
Our American laughing belly of land.
Come, endless hunger. In this devotion
there is an unyielding address to beauty.
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