when I roast cauliflower
to blend into soup
I learned to make
from my uncle
whose funeral
I missed to avoid
facing my mother,
a loss too great all
around, I regret reality  

when I write poems
alone in my room
evoking memories
dangerously delicious
resisting the urge
to do anything but
cementing truths
I want to shake free  

when I close my eyes
to sleep or smell paprika
I include in recipes
as familiar as framed
photographs and little
holes left behind  

when I removed
the pictures I no longer
care to remember yet
can’t seem to forget,
longing for eternal
sunshine of the spotless
mind, I study Alexander Pope
I only skimmed in college
now understand too well  

when I research to write,
following wormholes
in my quest to know
everything there is to know
and wish I knew nothing.