The Spice of Malevolence
Dense, rich and far too easily identified
by the Kristang tongue. I wish it tasted
better in any other form: toasted, marinated, fried
and maybe a little less beer-battered.
I don’t like to try
things I don’t want to eat. My
body, after all, has already served as a feast
many times over for very devouring eyes.
For the taste of corrupt, depersonified incense;
for a lifetime of pains, and fires inside
that bake me into a rich, intense, hypercurated
Kristang dish. With relish
you proclaim I have never been able to live;
I have never understood what it means
to give of myself. To be missed
by someone else.
To acknowledge that I will never be any kind of real
sambal belachan
because I do not insist upon it.
Because I am a legion of one
simple platter and recipe
that does not belong. Does not fit
into any table, or fiesta, or celebration.
Does not hit home
because I am not evil, and I am all alone
in my fiery corporality.
What a crude palate.
I would say you bring great shame to my kitchen
but I have no time; no patience; no interest in such devilry.
Dinner is five.
I’m going to bring out
my own cutlery.