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. . .