“Intergenerational Recipe” by Lindsay Mayhew
Intergenerational Recipe
My grandmother’s hands are open wounds,
inviting you to come consume. She caters
even when she cannot nourish herself.
When the world encumbers, she
kisses the back of your irises
to sleep. The scent
of rhubarb, blueberry, and baby
powder lingers.
Family is Pulla bread, a braiding of blood,
made
through the folding of flour and milk, kneaded
with palms wrinkled in time
and trauma.
Grandmother passes down this intergenerational recipe
in tongues.
I digest an unfamiliar language, vices
tumbling from her teeth, palms ripping
open.
She whispers, there is so much
meaning in a meal.
There is something heavenly about sharing
communion, especially when drenched in butter and
cinnamon. She nurses
my hands back whole. I wear the scars
as a reminder: I have not been swallowed
by the night.
Photo Credit: Staff