This came out nice and fast. Boska bread is a Russian-German Easter bread, yellow, slightly chewy, with raisins and a strong taste of anise. My grandmother on my dad’s side, who died last summer, guarded her boska recipe as if it were a secret souvenir of the fatherland, but my mother , with typical defiance, figured it out on her own (though that fact is utterly unimportant in the context of this poem, except perhaps in that my father’s family is Catholic, and my mother’s is Latter-Day Saint).
What I Taste on Earth
I consume the Easter bread six slices in a sitting. Anise tastes too strong for heaven like coffee, tea, and beer; raisins are a fallen fruit too close to decay. But Ill eat a loaf of boska bread; Ill devour each slice of spiced pork sausage. See: its burnt just a bit, crisp at the edges that with glow a gluttony of rendered fat Like a space probe sinking into Jupiter's clouds I extend all my senses, I take in as I am taken in, fulfill my self through feelingness and by this curiosity I am pressed and crushed: As gas becomes liquid my body's five hungers annihilate, all signals in and out terminate, ending a lifetimes respite from Worlds unseen.
