Sonnet I
Down 18th Street, we concluded that food prepared by beloveds
Is poignant and powerful stuff. She said a friend of a friend rose from
A dinner party of twelve to exclaim, Let’s all fuck! Up Valencia,
I recalled an old uncle wanting bowl after bowl of steaming white rice.The proportions on each spoon must be just right. She owned up to anorexia,
Calling it “self-care.” I confessed to secret overeating late at night.
The Castro had us sharing a little lemon custard and a bottle of pear cider.
In the Mission, we sat at heavily-sauced plates. She gave me gibletsFrom the pig-blood stew, the part near the chicken’s esophagus
That detaches pebbles from nutrients. They were an everlasting chew.
Slurping cartilage from oxtail bones, I sang the praises of innards and tripe.
Smoking another bidi, she said offhand she’d found her appetite.I counted six skewers sticky with fried banana juice and spit.
We’d kept up our unladylike hunger, step for step and bite for bite.
hey, thanks!
