The worm that chewed on the soil that fed the tomato plant.
The bee leg that stole the pollen from the bouquet which has fallen in the lentil pack.
The scrupulous mule that licked the mushrooms; they are still moist with his saliva.
Your idea of a hand on an apple is boiling in this pan next to mine.
The incentive of the cook without eyes chopping the mint for the meatballs.
The passionate mosquito, suicidal, in love with his cruel mistress, forgotten in the rice.
Her fingertips on the frozen vegetables.
My mother’s careless traces on the grass I cut this morning.
My dad’s hair on my sister’s clothes as she is mixing the dough.
The breath of the shark passing by the school of smelt,
the smell of foreign blood in my pan.
Hippocampus woman kissing devoted husband on the belly; their egg inside the mackerel.
The dust of the fossilized starfish billowing near my wheat crop.
The seaweeds you washed off your feet last summer in Hawaii, in my spirulina dust
The salt from the one drop of water that drowned all my country in the Britannic.
The sugar that caused my diabetes death
from the cane that roofed the hut which three hurricanes did not take down.
You see, everything ends up in my pan and I fry the pain and fear with joy.