The code of flavor burns

in the bottom of a grease bath,

flour and fat, pepper and salt,


the spices and the grease again

though the filters run every

third batch, run again and again


as the hot trays fill and empty

with bird upon bird. But soon

the silt of flavor builds


in the white bucket you tuck

back in the walk-in until

the roiling water’s ready


and you stir essence back

and add the corporate secret—

the binder of food starch,


maltodextrin, and the rest

hydrolyzed, modified, and

artificial, with not more than


two percent silicon dioxide

added as an anti-caking agent.

And the flavor of packaging


the heat transfers, the flavor

of heat itself sets and skins

over until the surface breaks


and the memory of roux

and right and wrong burns

the top of your mouth, tempts


the tip of your tongue

and your pour it on

despite your best intentions.


Photo By: Mattijs