A poem about a morning in a field — The flickers of panic started Just after we passed the orange stick For the second time. It wasn’t fear, But frustration, the first cracks in My absolute belief in our success. It’d been only an hour, and until I saw the orange stick again, Followed by the J sign, after…

I made old clothes for dinner tonight. The kids loved it. Ropa Vieja, in Spanish, which I don’t speak. In Cuba, where I’ve never been. That got me thinking. Tuesday’s meal came to us Twice colonized. Beef and olives arrived From Andalusia, not far Behind the slave ships. American novelists and gangsters Made the island exotic For the suburban Yanqui And turned a recipe Into an emblem That’s all the more startling For its embargo of hypocrisy. I needed the contrapuntal, So, into my pot with the bay leaves, Cumin, tomatoes, and vinegar Went a half-millennium’s wisdom That wasn’t mine. I felt the chains slip a bit, Creating a space to reclaim some joy In the awareness of our plates. Eating well may be the best revenge, But are you really eating if All you can do is taste your food?