Kitchen Apocrypha by Gregory Emilio
Gregory Emilio’s debut collection of poems Kitchen Apocrypha is filled with deeply religious, sacred poems to the god that is food. The forward momentum in these pieces is unstoppable—once you start a poem, you’re along for the ride. They often feel like a single long breath, a song, or a prayer. They’re gorgeous and transformative. They’re deeply human. They’re necessary. Buy here.
From “Prayer to Garlic”
Stinking rose, bulbous bride of the rough earth,
come up you coy, cloistered, dirt-bound moon,
slip from your skin and give us the hot tongue,
bitter-sticking syllables to haunt our breath
like the parched voices of the dead, consumed
by wildfire, sprung up, gunned down, got and gone . . .
From “Hymn to Fennel (Máratho)”
. . . People forget it was a
hollow stalk of giant fennel that carried
fire from Olympus, the root of all our art
hidden in a root
vegetable. Praise for the liver gutted
every day. Praise the flavor of Italian
sausage. Praise absinthe and the latest foodie
trends. People forget
marathon comes from the Greek word for fennel,
name of the place where it ran wild, where thousands
died in the flowing hills. Praise fire. Praise how we
run across the earth.
From “After the Last Supper”
. . . No, this is about a woman (she must
have been a woman) who hobbled out
of the kitchen to clean up the aftermath
of a feast of zealots. Picture her stacking
dirty plates, empty cups, not caring about
the rim that touched his lips, or the hard,
half-eaten loaf he held aloft as if it were
miraculous. It’s late and she’s too tired
to worry about the fate of these guests. . .