I like the taste
of raw white flour
of yeast with sugar
of cut lemons without.
I like the taste
of burnt:
burnt edges of bread;
skins of fish;
bottoms of pans and pots of long-simmered stew.
I like the taste
of oats from their cardboard cylinder
of the cartilage on chicken bones
of the skins of Chinese gooseberries
rough and brown as burlap
so different than
the cool green flesh.
I like the taste
of bitter:
bitter ends of vegetables;
milky broccoli stems;
citrus peel;
parsley or radicchio, cold and barely washed.
I like the taste.
But what to call these?
They neither start the day nor end it.
They cannot be themiddaymeal
Peacefully laid between two pieces of bread.
Never served by anyone
To anyone
Anywhere on Earth
Yet consumed by me.
And I find
I like the taste
of things discarded.
Like all guilty pleasures
It is not enough to feed a life.
Nor even is it to be done,
Or once done,
Spoken of
Or even admitted during the times and places
Set aside for confessing between friends.
The right of women and men to know
The failings of each other.
Because it is not
the cake, the candy, the cream
or any other of the approved indulgences.
But it is, I must admit,
What pleases me.
The burnt, the boiled, the bitter –
most of all the bitter-
Yes, this pleases me.
And satisfies unexpectedly
In a blunt, animal way.
What else is there to say?
Like me there may be many.
Like me there may be few.
I may be on my own
In this. Yet it will be true-
I like the taste.