Dad’s been in the kitchen before the sun
made it to the party, & I woke to the sweet
smell of herbed cream cheese folded
in sausage, laid in a jalapeno bed.
For a man with fingers like sausages,
he’s nimble in there, tender
in the soft glow of oven light.
I see my face reflected
when he watches guests ingest—
it’s almost impolite, bad manners, how much we care.
Food is our love language, & we’ve never loved quite
right. I’m never around for this anymore,
the quiet hours of preparation. I show up
to the party & I’ve missed it.
Camille Ferguson is a queer poet living in Cleveland, Ohio. Camille recently graduated from Cleveland State University where she received the Neal Chandler Creative Writing Enhancement Award. Her work is published or forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Drunk Monkeys, Flypaper Lit, and Zone 3, among others. Follow her on Twitter @camferg1