To the men who taught me how to cook
When you doubt if your father loves you
because of how you die a little more
each time he cuts you down,
you, somewhere, somehow,
wonder how you will survive.
I’m telling you because
you showed me how to stay alive.
—
My mother showed me the kitchen,
cleaning chicken, boiling rice.
I was raised a maid-child,
someway, somehow, prepared to be a bride.
I was twenty-five when I nearly
burnt down my too-big apartment
making homemade granola.
White-picket-fencing it.
Thought the big apartment would save me.
I only sat in one corner of the L-shaped couch;
only slept in my indentation on the
king-sized bed.
Loneliness fed me.
That, and obscene amounts of chocolate.
It’s the sweetness that reminded me
of what love was meant to be.
Love, as a memory.
Something I knew before I’d defined
my presence as poison
in my father’s eyes.
And despite the smiles, phone calls,
hugs upon return from escapades
another world over,
my underworld was rumbling,
wondering what hate tasted like as a meal.
I would eat,
punish my body;
so far from perfection.
I would cry,
punish my tears;
weakness, pain, weakness, pain.
I would laugh,
punish my happy;
I didn’t deserve it.
Of course, of course,
I would punish my shame.
And I found a groove, familiarly,
like poison I could imbibe without a trace.
—
I remember hearing saccharine
sweet artificial cherry scent
from my mother’s lips across
the phone line,
me, another world over.
Was this her coping mechanism?
Her way to digest the acidity of abuse?
Her way to sense-make the patriarchy
laced through her own blood?
Later, I would come to realize
her choice did not have to be mine.
That I could return to
a precious time within my mind.
A time before chairman and palm wine.
A time before missed graduations
and absent-hearted congratulations.
—
When I met you, A,
you showed me your smile.
Your gapped, chipped tooth
and your finger-licking appetite.
I only resented you
for coming to the table
without pants,
even though you taught me
how to waste not a spit of egg batter.
It was you, P,
who showed me
the value of cheese.
A European thing,
no bushman could ever care.
I came to love cheese.
It reminded me of your gentle
curiosity about life.
And how tenderly you loved me.
You’ve always been
just a friend,
L,
but believe me, I sensed a
husband in you.
You cooked for me like your own;
your love covering each bite.
Your essence was light,
your presence, erotic.
And J,
my biggest kitchen mentor to date.
I admired the way you’d season a plate.
I admired your desire for food.
With you, I ate good.
With you, I was loved good.
—
Is it possible to reconcile
choice with fate?
Hate with faith?
Is it possible to live by forgiveness?
My father often reminds me, on his less cheerful days,
that people are not to be trusted.
And my heart twists in fear
when I feel his own heart
crying out
for his mother
to be near.
—
I’m one with the sadness:
a song of sorrows is part of the symphony of life.
I’m one with the madness:
the shadows they were never taught to bring into the light.
I’m one with the questions:
the whys (wise) about it all.
I’m one with forgiveness:
I choose grace, and let the pain
be covered in flames;
let the meal be fed
to the peacekeepers
of our hearts.
The elephants.
The wild elephants.
