I will myself to hold the taste of this failure in my mouth.
Just one more flavor my white parents did not know how to cook with.

I smother the bitterness of asparagus and your contempt in garlic and white wine.

if god where my dinner guest;

He would ask me which brown woman we owed for tonight’s spice blend;
He would remind me that none of us have ever lived anywhere but Omelas;
He would remember how the acid of the lemon juice cut through the grease and your vitriol.

There is no violence or abuse
This sous chef pretending to be a line cook; did not teach me how to plate.

Salt. Fat. Acid.
I have always held my own magic.