by james bezerra
I can’t ever remember if pancetta is a meat or a cheese.
If gorgonzola is a cheese or a pasta.
If rigatoni is a pasta or an actual Italian dish.
And I do not know if the dishes in my cabinet have differing names.
I imagine they must.
Some dishes, like people,
are flat, shallow, small.
Some dishes, like people, have depth and thickness
or are unreasonably heavy.
There are too many names of things in the world
to ever know them all.
Because there are, in the world, too many things.
Too many people too - all alive and living, noisy and rushing -
to ever learn their names.
So we do the best we can; say “tall man” or
“Chinese man” or “pretty girl”
or “woman crying in the park”.
These names the brain better remembers.
Don’t blame the brain
just because it can’t
consume all there is to know.
No one thing could ever hold
all there is to know.
The brain does its best though,
it is just an organ, same as any other;
your hands might remember a lover’s body. Your
Fingertips may remember the goose bumps
of her skin. Your lips
may remember her taste.
But you don’t ask or expect
your lips to bring her back or
your fingertips to remember her name.
So what if the brain doesn’t know why the woman in the park
cries that way? So what
if it doesn’t know how one
gets to be Chinese.
It remembers “dish” and sometimes that
is enough. Just
and only barely enough,