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
