My Mother, Who Cannot Cook

There’s no culture in the small towns.

None in the big cities either.

Not for the girl with light skin and light eyes.

It was always boxed dinners:

Mother’s microwaved finest.

Or the next trendy recipe

From 50 new ways to eat an avocado.

She never taught me how to cook, because 

She doesn’t know how. 

And my dad 

He never taught me about God. 

It was a broken family.

The kind that shines on the outside

But rots away underneath the polish.

Dreams confined to that of bachelor’s degrees 

And mortgage payments. 

We’ve forgotten, where we come from. 

The stories that make our blood rich,

The colour, that fills our homes with love. 

We are a lost people. 

Grabbing at our past 

Looking desperately through traditions

For warmth in the cold emptiness of what we once

So willingly sold away.              

We want 

Ancestors 

Tales passed down

Spices in the food 

But it all tastes like nothing, blended together.