Solanine | Beck Reynolds
We feast on tortilla, served
on a chopping board:
you don’t own enough
plates for two.
I ask for cutlery, laugh
because I will need to
domesticate you.
We give ourselves
with full bellies, oniony lips.
Another night we swallow
soggy french fries outside
McDonald's. Rain-embossed
windows steam up as we sing
the Fast Food Song.
When you grow up in the noughties
you make light of the excess
that seeped into bones like grease
into chips. In the mornings
I sneak out of bed to present you
with a tuberous surprise I have
diced, sautéed or deep fried.
Anything not to go
hungry. I wait for you
like a takeaway going cold
behind the counter. Listen
for my number to be called.
Buy you a potato masher for Valentine's
because once everything is smooth you forget
how much work went into making it
that way. We starch into place.
I try not to read into how par-boiling
feels like an unnecessary step.
What did I expect? We go green:
a warning of bitterness to come.
Beck Reynolds is a British writer interested in food, family and fantasy. She volunteers regularly at the Oxford Poetry Library and organises free workshops for emerging poets. When not writing, she is most likely found furiously knitting or watching red kites fly above her house.