I was raised by English
My mother tongue was not so much
The language of my culture as it was
The aroma of the kitchen
My mom was not a chef
But she threw Wordsworth and WC Williams in a pot
And boiled them until only ee was left
My dad could not cook
But he layered Kant and ML King in a bowl
And mixed until Bonhoeffer emerged
I had Zora Neale for breakfast and Merton for lunch
Dinner was a solemn affair, Thomas and Kafka
But if I finished, I was allowed some Lewis from the fridge
With a sprinkle of Tolkien for good measure
It has been many years since then
Now my parents are old and tell me to be sure and get my Dostoevskies
But it is I who now feed them
And make sure they put down Roberts and take their Cornell before bed
Someday my children's children will ask what my parents were like
And I will read them Seuss
But the Lorax will never taste as good
As when my mom made it
