The Word Aioli
So close to mayonnaise,
yet so far away.
Back of the mouth, narrow puff of air blown forward.
Almost like the start of a cough.
Hard stop.
Round the jaw and soft palate.
Let go of your wallet.
Feel the symmetry of French cuisine.
As the movement of a much more subtle,
yet consciously sought after
Instagram-able, soft, tender, and rich,
the same sound you’ll make when you taste this
quinoa burger.
Finally, your tongue moves and droops.
Scrunch the mouth. Let the triangular motion settle to the bottom
of the twine-wrapped mason jar.
Whisper hopes and dreams through the slit in your teeth.
Three quick, hard sounding syllables dance to the beat of
rustic farmhouse bistro with postmodern flare
on grilled, buttered multi grain bread.
Sitting on top of cage-free ketchup
and guilt-free pickles.
On top of a sustainability-sourced, refurbished oak slab
with an icy smooth, clear-gloss varnish.
Served by an adult with pigtails named ‘bloom.’
This building used to be a factory.
Now it’s a brewery/restaurant/bowling/minigolf/arcade.
A man named Aspen— only walked you to your table,
but still managed to mention Colorado.
Cooked by an underpaid, undocumented man.
A father of three beautiful children.
He has never seen a kid grow wings
or learn encrypted sounds.
300 back home to his abuela every 30th.
Third shifts and overtime,
en-
caged
by corrupt systems.
En-gaged to Uncle Sam.
But you will never learn his name.
