Chef

Not everyone goes on. Electric eel played outside   
the window. I ate perogies: boiled, tucked with potatoes.
I poured vodka and did not drink, camouflaged it
with grapefruit juice and let it sit. My room was a mess.
I owed emails. I taught my classes. The kids were smart
that day. Not everyone goes on, I told them. But they
had already worked out death and meaning.
One kid had an interview. Another asked for a rec.
So much future and you? None. Eclipsed. What was I
digesting while you lay, heaven-bent, 3,000 miles away?
Biriyani. Raita with warm cucumbers. Grilled paneer.
A Punjabi kid from Texas served it, comedic, talking of guns
and oil. It’s rude to make this beautiful, botanical.   
My friends who know me suddenly don’t. I do ketamine
and go to a party called Pageant where Gen Z kids
dance badly. I roll my eyes. I’m rolling in grief’s spastic laughter.
My friends say, wow, you are new. Wow, you are happy.
Wow, you have been unbearable. Wow, you are so angry
all the time, because they don’t see how one thing links
to another. When you arrived into the country
that had arrived into our country, you slept rough on a bench.
What a euphemism. You sold flowers and hashish
in the streets and the light of Lisbon was clear and pink.
Why does death make me call everyone a kid?
Chefs are like priests are like poets. We feed our enemies
a meal and think everything is forgiven. Our hearts beat hard
for centuries. Whenever I was angry, you said, baby, eat.