inspired by Kevin Bezner’s poem,
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God explains earth to his angels
It used to be from the master’s table.
But because they could not afford wine, vinegar
Was a fine substitute. They refused to stir it
Until the aroma filled the kitchen. They served
it only in banquets as homage to the saints.
They happily submitted to the whims of friars,
Honored the texts, the blessed recipes:
Although sometimes, they would add more
garlic, or make it dry. The dish was a
communion of sorts, a treaty between the
haves and the have-nots. Then
They began to question the measurements.
They began to stop believing in divinity
of tradition. They started bickering
about which has become standard,
which version to embrace.
What was once a contract of allegiance became
merely a means for mouths to be fed.
They began to understand that heaven
Can be created on any dirty stove.
I was never angry. They never said, “Old man,
go away.” How could I rebuke blasphemy
That resulted in creation?
What saddens me is I cannot remember
how it first tasted.
But what excites me is
I cannot recognize it anymore.