I am eating my ancestors.
—Charles Simic, “To All Hog-Raisers, My Ancestors”
Let’s assume it happens,
that the broccoli we eat
knows a word or two
of a language we don’t speak,
that the fresh well-water
sings like our great-great-
grandfather as a small boy
punished into a dark corner
of his little room; at the end
of a long day, there’s peace
in simplicity, the song of ache
snowing over old bones,
preserving the flesh like a freezer.
We are not like the ancient
seamen, we are them with each
press of celery to our lips,
with each pinch of salt
over our hamburgers.
The lemon custard stars
can still be navigated by,
and old ladies still make
strawberry jam—the lineage
of food is far-reaching and exotic.
This is all the explanation I need
to know God understands hunger.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
