Go On

I stock the freezer with food—
trays of chicken, a bag of peas 
and one of corn. Blocks of butter. 
Plastic boxes with meals I've made 
ahead of teaching nights or trips 
out of town. Adobo, picadillo, 
afritada: dishes that freeze well. 
I remember reading a poem in which 
the speaker described opening the last 
container of food her mother had made 
before she died; then she and her father
sat down at the kitchen table and ate
through their tears until they couldn't 
anymore. And so, while I can also see 
that part of the reel, I know life will 
continue wanting to be fed— wanting 
the onions peeled, the fruit cored, 
the kettle filled and put on the stove 
to boil. Wanting even the small, ordinary 
work of stirring sugar into coffee then 
tapping the teaspoon on the rim of the cup.