When kids write their bios for school poetry anthologies,

they tend to write their favorite food as their bios.

Miguel in Highbridge wrote that he loves pepperoni pizza,

while Kamilia in Brownsville praised her Aunt Ruth’s

channa roti. I propose adult poets start doing the same.

Who cares that my last book was published by so-and-so

press, that I’ve taught at university X or writing conference Y?

Let it be known that I worship the crumbs of my husband’s

strawberry rhubarb crisp, that when I mandoline fennel,

the culinary angels lick their knives and create periwinkle

symphonies from the rims of celestial wine glasses.

My poetry is veined by the off-kilter taste of mass-produced,

pre-crumbled gorgonzola, studded like currants bursting

in whole-grain pumpernickel rye. My theory of lineation

pays tribute to unevenly cut wine-soaked cabbage.

My understanding of sonics is rooted in the rustle of kale,

the sizzle of roasting garlic tofu and the loud lip-smack

of my late grandmother slurping her chilled borscht.