This poem is part of the SPOONFEED takeover of New Writing, curated by Kat Payne Ware and Sean Wai Keung. You can read the issue in full at spoonfeedmag.com/spoonfeed-x-new-writing
Given the smallest prompt / Father will describe
how I skulked just beyond the lamplight’s reach
watching the ring of men / ripe with beer and laughter
push thick fingers into the mountain of spiced meat
roasted with onions / ginger and chillies like an altar
I fought to worship at / swiping through their arms
at the chunks / a mouse attempting to feast
with kings / Frustrated / Father stopped their speech
so I could reach in / greedily choose the choicest piece
ignore his warnings and tear at the muscle / strain
against the flesh till its elasticity slipped my fingers
and the chunk / chillies and all slapped into my eyes.
Father thumped my back as I coughed on the pepper
/ swallow twice / he urged / dropping the wailing mess
of me on Mother’s knees / What Father didn’t know
is I imagined the key to their impenetrable talk
lay in the cubed meat and I longed to be like them
In the circle of friends I have / most of our conversations
revolve around music / the heft and sway of the changing
world / the rapid rate of our redundance / how best
to pretend we know it all and when beer loosens
what inhibitions are left after shredding meat
with bare fingers / laughter cloaks our weaknesses:
our inability to provide for those we love / who love us
we who still know nothing of what our lovers want
how frightening it is to have nephews growing up
who want to be like us / who want to be like men
