You’ll want to use lots of herbs, herbs from the ground—
The ground, dirt between my fingers.
Dirt—our mortal blanket.
Make sure you tender the meat.
Care for it as you would a child.
Sadness tastes bitter on anxious lips.
To watch the smiles erupt—
As saccharine doses delight them
Is sweeter than the purest honey
Fizzy potions to toast the joyous moments
Or to numb the pain caused by those
Who call themselves “family.”
The cauldron of morning
Replenish your hunger with the effort of meals past
That new taste is cold realization.