Sopa de Feijão
A poem about appetite, dread, and being told to be grateful anyway.
As soon as I would open
the garden gate
fresh off the bus from school
the smell would sucker punch me
a cartoon-sketched aroma shaped like a closed fist
ramming its way into my poor nostrils
Descending the basement steps to the kitchen
felt like walking the plank
to my
doom
The scent of the red kidney beans
and the red sausage
and the red broth
that had bubbled angrily for hours
then blended with potato into a punishment
so inevitable it made me dig my nails into my palms
anticipating the fullness
too much
stomach stretching
too much
pressure building like a geyser
she’s gonna blow!
I knew I would be on my knees
retching
the hot, stinging lava into the cold porcelain
some beans still whole and floating like islands
in the now brown sea of dollar store Fabuloso
Worse still, would be to vomit back into my soup bowl only to be forcefully
spoon fed
drowning
because the children in Africa were starving
and they would be grateful for this meal
- Ariel Fox