Short Stack
She shows me the sign for colonization,
hands fly to her chest and head, close
air in clamped fists. How can fingers make
quick sense of something we try to deconstruct?
Her stack of pancakes proud and three-deep,
she removes one for me, looks at my full plate, cuts
what was once whole in half, thinking it can
now fit, but it doesn’t. So, I give her one of
my two fried eggs, whites fork-cut, separating
mine from hers. I try to avoid puncturing the
yolk that fork and knife attempt to shuttle
to her plate. But it all falters: egg, tumbled
upside down on the table, yolk impossibly
still intact. I take the tabled egg. Give her
the plated one. My jumble of pancake and split
egg a mess. She shows me next, the sign for
decolonization, a clutch at the heart and head,
exorcism hands expelling the offending substance
in a puff of air. We share the maple syrup. Drip
cream into coffee. Dream aloud of the stories
we want spoken into the world and how we can
usher them in. But, is there a place where I can
exist as a forefathers’ promise for tomorrow
while knowing someone else has paid?
Instructions for Making Stock
I
On the chopping block, a head
of celery, its leafy crown scalped.
Each rib, cut down, and a peeler
to skin ribbons of carrot nearby,
just scrubbed of earth that makes
broth bitter. We add green flecks
of bell pepper to the pot. Salt.
Smashed garlic, Bay leaves. Schmaltz
we skim off the top. Over high heat,
how long it simmers, til finally we eat.
II
But in the beginning, a gathering
of bones thump stainless steel, battering
the bottom. The best broth takes
hours to concentrate, not easy to fake
but I’m not sure we have that long—
We are a valley of dried bones,
a people robbed at assault rifle.
The news could cause anyone to spiral
down. I want to say each name aloud
to honor the dead, not give renown
to the taker—what if gunned down
names took over, coursed twitter’s stream
spoke names back to life, they’d dissolve in steam
A person feeds on what gives life,
What does a tweet feed on, strife?
What is enough to turn up the heat
This accounting overdue, is this
something that will repeat
Annelies Zijderveld’s poetry appears in Acentos Review, the Racket Reading Series Quarantine Journal, Alexandria Quarterly, Ethel Zine, and other publications. Her cookbook, Steeped: Recipes Infused with Tea, was selected by the Los Angeles Times as one of their favorite cookbooks. She lives in Oakland and online @anneliesz.