I waited on your curb thinking of cabbage – its crispy bitter leaves, each layer laid firmly against the head. When was the last time I felt its unadulterated creases against my teeth? As a pozole garnish its strange coolness contrasts so perfectly with a soup that I probably over-salted. But all I can remember from when we cooked together is soft noodles, generously yielding, pliable, felt all too strongly in my disillusion. A lone strand of linguini escaped – from box to pot, from pot to beneath the stove grate. Maybe I too will dry up from the flames of other hot meals, and I will finally crunch.

—october 2023