Whenever mother got up from the dinner table
without fully licking her plate clean,
devouring every last square inch
of dripping wet tomato sauce, each
river of melted butter, each
drop of wine an ocean in itself,
I always had to stifle the urge,
welling up like helium inside, to finally ask
why she was allowed to go hungry, when I was forced
to swallow every single flake drowning in lukewarm milk,
every shred of lettuce swimming in vinaigrette, every pat of butter
that barely fit on the lukewarm baguette. I know
she'd say this was instinct, from a time when her people
had to flee men throwing stones in Europe, had to toss
their entire pack of possessions over their back, always
packed tightly for just such a possibility, which
hung over them as shadows
whenever they tried to sleep. Naturally,
they would imbibe every last crust of bread,
every unusable part of the skin
of what was once a cow, for fear
that pitchfork-wielding marauders would someday
steal the rest of their bread, slaughter
their cattle, burn their fields, and they
would have no choice but to clutch
a star of David to their chest
and run to a new land, which
would never be called home, so long
as it taught me to insist on cookies
instead of sandwiches, on pizza and burgers
and fizzy little smiles, so that maybe, just
maybe, a scimitar-wielding man would someday come
hover over my bed at night, clutching
a Bible in one hand, desperate to teach
that there's more danger in this world
than the taste of soggy, overcooked string beans,
which clung to my throat like knife blades, no matter
how many watered-down whiskeys I drowned them in.
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