and it was at that age...picnic and pantry arrived
in search of me. i don't know, i don't know where
it came from, from kitchen or a restaurant.
i don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a tavern i was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there i was without a meal
and it fed me.
i did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my stomach,
thirst or forgotten hunger pangs,
and i made my own way,
deciphering
that menu
and i tasted the first flavorful bite,
flavorful, full of substance, no
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows everything,
and suddenly i saw
the breads
blue oven
and earthy,
salads,
palpitating plantains,
kale perforated,
riddled
with braggs, garlic and ginger,
the winding rice noodles, the roasted vegetables.
and i, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great gastrointestinal
void,
likeness, image of
bounty,
i felt myself a pure part
of the gastronomy,
i wheeled with the jeni's,
my gut broke free on the open table.
