500 recipes for the happy home — Nora Smith

the irony has not escaped me that i am woman,
so i am food, so i cannot eat.

the world has not failed to tell me that i am flesh,
like apple,
that i am skin,
like apple,
that my heart should be stone,
like seed laced with cyanide.

a burned hand on a stovetop.
red meat seasoned with sweat
and fear.
i open the oven, starving.
i peer into pantry, starving.
i angle kitchen knife over fingertips,
i fall heart-first onto carving fork,
i leave burning pot on the stove,
starving.

the world has not failed to tell me that i am fearful,
like girl,
that i am fragile,
like girl,
that my heart should be hearth,
like heat laced with burnt…something you almost recognize

the irony has not escaped me that i am woman,
so i feed, so i cannot be full.