The tuna always disappears
I always finish the peanut butter
You want more vegetable proteins
I am famished without my daily meat
We toast glutinous and gluten free
They take different time in your dad’s old toaster
You make light work of wilted spinach
Garlic, sunflower oil and frying pan,
not much can go wrong
You like short grain
I like long grain sometimes,
but I’ve learned to appreciate those fat little things.
You can drink coffee at 10pm
I can toss endlessly and sweat after just one in the late afternoon
We’re both for butter, which is a relief
margarine is for losers
You don’t eat it for breakfast though,
you run out of the house empty
Liquid confidence, without the alcohol
I stuff myself with bread or cereal, stumble out satiated
at a clip, full
You used to have ice cream for dinner every night
In the summer I’d get grapes
My mum can’t eat garlic
Your mum can’t eat chilli
How’s that for pungency?
It’s like we share a matriarch deep down - plain old chicken stock
The shared Chinese-Irish connection
It’s the only shared thing apart Dave’s Irish-Chinese on Barkly St
Where they learned to put double fried chicken and vinegar together
and called it a spice-bag
are we are spice-bag?
Sounds pretty hot.
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Cormac Kirby is a poet and urban planner living on unceded Wurundjeri and Bunurong land.
He is interested in multi-disciplinary poetry, spatial poetry and how where we live influences our understanding of the universe.