I chop up chicken breasts -
boneless, skinless, oozing-through bird -
and saucepan sautee them as I read
about Palestinian elections.
"Hamas will receive no aid", the headline
screams. I eye the words as bell peppers burst,
onions make me weep, and,
the two get chopped up,
as I, teary-eyed, try not to add in
an unlisted ingredient: finger.
The article continues: "Israel will
not recognize the new government",
it says, ignoring the popular vote,
ignoring the cries of the displaced,
ignoring the optimism of the moment
as I ignore the part of the recipe that
says one head of garlic, crushed.
The dull edge of the blade ushers in
most fowl, then the bell pepper mingles
with the onions in a vinegar soup of soy,
boiled until (at least) a dun-brown hue;
soon foods are interchangeable.
It's all going to the same place,
natch, and I have
yet to meet a food more virtuous than
the others. My kitchen witch keeps smiling
as it all goes in the pot,
too amused by food fusion
to say what is and what is not.
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