KIMCHI

Was it when
I first read you, pickling
my way
through the
salad of your words,
and spiking
with a flick of thumb
and forefinger,
a few of the
herbs I’d found
disagreeable, before
I’d opened myself
to these
acquired tastes
of yours.

About food or not,
your poem made me
very hungry.

Found it
in a competition
which I didn’t enter
because of this—
I’d be
picking up
enticing aromas
that I can’t abide,
unless

I walk to my
local grocer’s
which
caters to
Korean cuisine

(my first attempt at
kimchi
was a fiasco
of epic proportions).

And how will I
manage
while I stare at
octopus—
the whole place smells
of dried, raw fish
in big
open bushel barrels.

I wanted to tell you
not to
hold your breath
as I was trying to do
at that moment,
turning blue.