August 20, 2024
 |  35 Comments

I allow myself the luxury of breakfast, 
I am no saint to be honest, 
three decades  
of dawn spent sitting  
outside alone with nothing but  
consolation of coffee 
and pitter  
patter  
of rain on the rooftop. 
The atmosphere is enough to make a  
philosopher out of anyone. 

Caked in black these fingertips trace  
the remainder  
of charcoal whereon incense is burnt, 
I write  
whatever emotion
occupies me at the moment, 
carob brown eyes admiring me for the efforts  
that I make,  
it isn’t easy, you see, I forget  
what marmalade tastes 
like when he opens his mouth to speak, 
drop toast to the ground  
every time he shares strawberry  
cheese sentiments,  
it’s almost  
as though  
food  
is the last  
thing  
on his mind. 

Still, I manage to whip up an omelette,  
slice tomatoes into thin strips  
and take notes from green chilies regarding  
aftermath of heat, 
it feels cruel,  
something inside my heart isn’t  
willing to let go so easily, 
his lips are reminiscent of butter, 
which is precisely why  
I have to think  
a little before  
pressing mine to his— 
do we  
really need  
spring onions in omelette for more flavor? 

This breakfast I speak of is literal, 
is metaphorical to the extent that pears  
channel their sweetness, 
walnut dusted, 
it teaches one the significance of waiting 
until the time is just right, 
peeled, cored  
and quartered, I wasn’t aware such knowledge 
even existed, 
like a dark side unleashed to cater to purity, 
I bite into the pear  
and let him explain  
how exactly to use an oval gratin baking dish. 
This is going to take a while. 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Bread on White Ceramic Plate Beside Stainless Steel Fork, Pexels.

Loosely inspired from the poem “I allow myself” by Dorothea Grossman, for my prompt
where I invite others to explore the senses in food poetry. Come join us! 🩷

Posted for Poetics: Exploring the senses in Food Poetry @dVerse Poets Pub