A meal; innocence; a reminder of the antecedent
When marie callender's microwavables quenched the deepest hunger,
When instant gratification was conventional ,
When the lioness of my stomach,
hollow and growling,
was destined to be assauged.
Now a vulture,
apportioned discards and dead remains
of leftover lunch meat and stale rice cakes
Abiding for prey to die,
tasting of the dark soil it is becoming

But upon entering the watering hole,
My bereaved flight for decaying specimen is plundered
by a garlic aroma, sizzling
on the stove, finely chopped
onions and minced
garlic, taking in the air, saturating
with scent, clouding
my senses.

I circle the target,
my keen eye focused on the prey,
but my mother bids me to exchange
claws for a fork and ground almonds,
fine as sand on scorching
summer day, that no water has ever touched upon,
which binds the particles together.
The metal crease I grasp wedges
the flour, chilled butter, cold water, and a sprinkling of sugar
until a wet clump derives
succulent enough to eat raw.
Chicken, plump and searing in juice, and sweet carrots, growing
weaker and softening
over the speckled flame, engendering
my hand to warm overhead,
overflow the wide charcoal pan,
tarnished of my mother’s triumphs and trials.

Because of me, our house is furnished
with alternative flours, milks, and organic meats.
When I inhale the air, it propels
my consciousness to the past;
of warm meals and neatly packaged treats
how so much has differenced,
How so much has forfeited.
I drench the pan in broth and sneak bites, shoving in
tender carrots and onions,
only feeding my gluttony.
When simmering has settled,
and broth turns to thick bubbling cream, we transfer
into the pan, pouring and scraping
every last drop of the rich, thickened broth.
Steadily, our hands lift
my wet heap, now pressed
into a thin, almost translucent, paper,
up and on top of the mound of ingredients,
then delivering the monument into the heart of the glowing kiln.

Slowly, the half an hour transpires,
the odor only germinating,
The smell seeming to transit
right into my roaring stomach.
Saliva formes.
When the crust flakes over,
hard and brown,
and the gooey innards push out of the pan,
pressing past the cracks of the crust,
it is ready.
Nearly scorching our mouths,
we attack. Paws back out, ripping
apart the flesh, teeth stabbing,
faces covered in meat and cream,
and spec of dirt nowhere to be seen.