poetry / culinary poetics
What Do We Really Want from Our Dough?
A Shantung Surprise
dead on arrival. unannounced
you’re joking i softly swear
i scramble for the best camera angle
none available
hand shredded. says the menu
hand moulded. says the picture
whose hands are these?
edges not properly joined
the darned thing bursted
bursted!
busted brains of baked dough
i nibble a tiny piece…
i feel
your hands maneuvering
lumps of moist flour
your sweat
your pressure
your joy~~
your labor of love~~
no bitterness
no anger
this lump of broken dough. unkempt
splits on all seams
lands on my
fine dining table
shocks me into
finer thoughts
of piercing northerly winds
peeling scarce snow
biting into Shantung bones
body yearning for warm dough
someone bakes in their stove
someone bringing charcoal
through snow
oh gosh!
delicate crisp surface~~
pillowy~~yielding inwards~~
yielding~~till
my heart melts
your ancestral culinary wisdom lives
baked dough
pie. bao. bread. chapati. naan. zeppole~~
water. grease. labor
finer than my thoughts
across cultures
across continents
grains of the land
offsprings of the sun
one with my flesh
who am i to deserve this divinity
who ever promised dough must be perfect
who am i to feign airs
when you feed my earthly body
queen of languages
needs no words
© Pseu Pending (Seu) 2024
