Grease & Salt
by Jeanann Verlee
I finish a small hot plate of grease & salt / & push
the scraped-clean plate across the counter
for someone else to scrub / this, I say I have paid for
but it doesn't fit / I see the hundred hands
it took to cultivate / the hands that milked the cow
(or built the machines that did) / the hands that harvested
the artichokes & spinach & shallots / the hands
that steamed & fried / the hands that mined
the salts (or maintained the machines that did) / the hands
that mixed the clay & the hands that baked them to ceramic
in a kiln / the hands that sliced & spiced the bread /
the hands that rolled fork & knife into napkin /
the scalded hands that pulled the dish from oven /
the hands that passed the plate to the hands that set it
before me / the hands that wring in hopes I have no
complaint & that if I do, I won't take to Yelp
with my grievances / the hands that whisk the emptied
plate from sight / the hands, too, that swipe my card
& the hands that process the accounts between /
the hands that wipe the counter, seats, floor, handles /
the hundred hands that work & ache & crack over this
one tiny indulgence I myself can't rightly afford /
& I remember my father’s hands, & my mother’s / &
too, the hands of the farmers & soldiers & steel
workers & brick layers in my bloodline / & my hands, too,
each scar & chip / each labor for paycheck or fury or love
& I praise & I praise & I praise / the work & the hands /
& I lick the salt from the corners of my oily mouth.
