Food For Her Soul

Fed the language of our ancestors,

she devoured the flavors of our heritage.

Tasted each word,

each conversation.

 

Our daughter

spoiled with gluttony and pride,

consumed her meals.

A taste turned sour,

as spices grew dull.

Traces of curry

at the tip of her tongue.

 

Indifferent to the time put into

creating mince meat, beans,

and brown rice.

No longer asking for

more chantey,

more curry.

 

No longer seeking

that sweet nectar,

engulfed in all the richness of our homeland.

 

Nor the recipe

of each taste,

each flavor.

Our words and conversations.