You may pilot a plane, rappel down rocks,
map out the brain and still the town talks
of how – and if you cook. You crack
for them the books, prove you can read. Feed
their curiosity, give them something to chew.
Their brows rise at the texture, the taste, the scent,
and you smile, offended by the compliment.
There is nothing on the table unseasoned
with distaste, for where they see potential
you see it gone to waste. Before you are women
who feed off of feeding, who with ladles lead,
while in simmering sauces you see your time bleed.
You may rise to the heavens
and crash back to earth
and still, in teaspoons,
they measure your worth.