frying eggs
is sometimes the only thing that makes sense
just a simple task,
maybe the first food you learned to cook
young and hungry in the kitchen-
rem-
ember when
young and hungry
was
all you needed to be?
Category: Food
Poem for Robin
such a human thing: making meaning
from every moment.
isn’t it enough
that we’re all here, eating our corn syrup
easing our shadows?
who are we to satisfy
some entropic god
some ancient mercy?
Skills.
Let’s be real. A global pandemic is not the best for becoming a master of a skill. The underlying anxiety caused by tiny daily decisions like “should I go to the grocery store to buy milk and eggs and risk getting ill and dying” and “I won’t be able to wash my hands until I get home but I need to run multiple errands to save on gas” exhausts my brain and body. The constant transitioning online, offline, online, offline, to stay afloat as an entrepreneur feels like trying to catch a particularly quick chicken. Running, clucking, spreading your hands out in front of you and hoping for the best.
When I can’t make plans for the future, and I truly understand that I don’t have control of anything, it’s hard to aim to master a skill like I usually do. I practice piano, but what am I practicing for? I rehearse with my band, but what shows am I rehearsing for? What tour am I prepping for? I’m saving money to move to a new city, but when will I be able to safely visit the cities I might move to? “Promoting myself” begins to feel like pushing useless art on people. I can’t reach them by performing live, right in front of them, with the sound reverberating around the room, all breathing together and feeling together. So.
I’ve developed the following skills:
Knowing which size Tupperware will work best for leftover pasta, as opposed to leftover stir fry.
Cuddling with my kitten.
Telling friends that I love them, that they are beautiful.
Training morning glory vines to climb up my porch railings.
Clearing out clutter in my house (okay, maybe not every week, but DEFINITELY more than twice a year).
Giving small gifts to neighbors, friends, family.
Giving my partner long, bear hugs.
Noticing signs that the season is changing.
Staring out the screen door at the garden, green, alive with sun, feeling the flyaways around my face moving in the breeze.
Walking at night through the neighborhood, feeling like I’m back in middle school, telling each other all our secrets.
Concocting dank dinners that take me hours to plan, prepare, and execute.
Being me.
Influence
coffee shop thoughts are
somehow more pointed and clear
than thoughts in kitchens
Grammy
I’ll go to visit you
In the green fields of my youth
Your skin as soft as flowers
That dot the hillside
My mother she will hold
Your hand until she knows
That you will safely make it
Through her memories
I remember summer treats
Blueberries between my teeth
Raw cane sugar in a little bowl
Whole-oat oatmeal by the window
I can’t recall the sound
Of your voice while we sat around
The dining room table full
Of food we had to share
I loved that magnet on your fridge
Of Jesus on a tie die binge
I’d get him down to his underwear
Then dress him up again
City Coffee
Haven’t you noticed
That “good” espresso tastes like
Depths of tomato?
Siena Rose 