by Michael Cirelli
I blame it on field greens
and the French — with their anti-gravity
noses pointed towards the point
of Tour Eiffel. It was Bush-I-era when our
groceries, not Provençal, were flooded
with these preemie leafies whining
on our plates. So deceived by
this new alien word for salad: our Icebergs sunk
by rocket (arugula), God’s breath (Swiss chard),
and N-dive or On-deev or whatever whatchamacallit.
Our romaine omitted for Dijon’s child
(mustard greens), for mizuna, for oak leaf,
mâche, radicchio. A million combinations of salad
mixes piling up (like leaves) on Stop &
Shop conveyor belts, paving the way for aisles
of spelt, sprouts, whole wheat crusts.
Cutting ribbons for Whole Foods and gentri-
fication. Now at brunch, instead of home
fries we get mesclun, instead of sausage
get turkey-links, instead of eggs, Eggbeaters.
What happened to slices of bacon
thick as dominoes, chunks of blue cheese
stank as hockey socks? Enough Tofurkey,
Tempeh, Tazo. I want mom’s pork
chops, Homer Simpson’s favorite food: stuffed
with smashed Ritz and butter rich as Versailles.
Michael Cirellia is a graduate of the New School’s MFA in writing program. This poem is from the forthcoming collection entitled The Grind. His poems have recently been published in Gastronomica, Edible Brooklyn, among others.
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