Emily O'Neill

If you could see where I learned to cook

sousing for my gram & I sing her French love songs I can’t translate / she knows

its about eyes & bones & beds I think / how embarrassing to not speak

the language, to undress parsley of yellow leaves & crave your tile island

how we don’t speak when eating / the coal quiet / sage leaves soft as rabbit

fur / shredded over risotto you are probably eating right now

in Chicago / I had rice for dinner too / from a freezer

bag / she’s been cooking three generations & is too tired for big meals

two consecutive nights / I take down the big knife, think

I’m helping & regret that I step outside myself so quickly

table where my plate would go cold & wait for me all night

until breakfast / each portion hard & dry & still mine / nothing like

the farrow dish we ordered twice / chestnuts & an open hand

waiting to take whatever is left / Gram carved pork into the pan

from the back of the fridge, pulled paring knife into her thumb again

again / two rabbits in the yard / a hutch she calls The Rabbit Taj Mahal

we had a rabbit meatballs that night, yes? / I can still keep consistent

enough to eyeball a 1/4 cup of diced onion exactly / it makes her proud

to see me snapping walnuts down to dust by hand