the first national anthem : the last elegy

and what is our national anthem if not an elegy?

we no longer carry cardamom to house parties, instead we gift

the front lawn with cloves, tumbleweeding from our hands. present

the open veins of sprig leaves as a peace treatise. we question

every invitation with invitation; no home is left unwelcome,

a stout of vanilla orchids dug into our creaking elbows. often we wonder

when dying became an option, we haven’t taken the time to understand

the weight of flour. when we were younger, our grandmothers would cup it

in their hands and it would always be enough; never a moment in rolling

out the dough would they interrogate the measurements; add more

milk to the bowl, watch the paste drown into a chalky soup. often we wonder

why dying is still an option. can we not acknowledge

in baking, there is always a lesson to be learned?

it’s easy to question the legitimacy

of an anthem, but aren’t all anthems just an elegy

and aren’t all elegy just recipes

left by our mother’s splintered wooden spoons

and aren’t all meals from their tired fingers

worth singing a splitting hymn for

we praise no god in this new land, but every mother’s kitchen

hum becomes the holiest worship. what else to bestow upon a troubled

people other than rum and curry, wings and henny, joy

and breathing; freedom singing from the skillet’s crisp

popping tongue;