Poem by Lauren Camp

Savoring

I arrived at her house with absence 
and sadness, pliant with fear. Stood 
beside avocadoes and Doc’s
special chicken, cold on a plate,
as she pulled circles of dough outward
and flipped them to bows, 
making something called taiglech, 
which she dropped like bullets into hot-
bubbled honey. Nearly midnight, 
she let me be tired, but I stirred 
and she whisked until we were trading 
in syrup, our hands sticky and gesturing 
above boiled nectar. We shaped 
conversation in the noise of particulars, 
the complexion of night, and grease-
ripe pleasures left to dry on white 
paper towels. The dark-haired woman 
smiled loosely and I listened – 
to her, instead of my maelstrom 
of worry. Everything I needed was seeped 
in phrases about menus and tables 
and long loaves of bread. All that happened 
was cooking, the room so alive 
with acts of alchemical desire, 
where dark didn’t froth. In that place, 
that October, where I tasted sweet 
with my dad’s new lover, where she 
tempted me back to my assertive sense 
by asking nothing, where she let me retreat 
and consume both the ginger and honey, 
and kept me away from the burn 
while extending the sugar.

This poem was first published in The Perch. ​

Audio recording of the poem can be found here: 
https://www.dropbox.com/s/j5brmp7sun5hdhy/L.%20Camp-Savoring.mp3?dl=0

Lauren Camp is the author of five books, most recently Took House (Tupelo Press). Honors include the Dorset Prize and a finalist citation for the Arab American Book Award. Her poems have appeared in Poetry International, Witness and Kenyon Review, and been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com

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