burnt edges

James Bowden

my brother insists that the burnt part of the noodle is the best to eat.
I tell him cancer is bad.

(
my brother insists the burnt part of the noodle is best.
I mean, listen, I cherish my burnt ends most of all–
I tell him cancer is hard.
he holds steady.

I love my burnt edges, burnt core, charcoal everything.
my friend’s mom died 2 days after finding out she had cancer on her brain stem.
my brother holds steady, almost as steadily
as the cancer that took another friend’s mom, who died many days after finding out she had brain cancer.

scale of objectivity, just as you are, I present you:
two friends, motherless, and some tasty noodles, nonetheless.
it’s mothers’ day. I pray for mine. on her side,
my aunt’s only friend is so used to chemo that spring allergies casually coughed her ribs broken /

not to mention:
the burnt edges of my aunt’s husband’s blood cells, which leuked him out of skinny existence;
the burnt edges of my aunt’s father’s alveoli, life sucked sweetly out of existence like a cigaret;
the burnt edges of my aunt’s mother’s hair, singed by the same fires that crunched entire family to anon ash–
or was that from the car crash that winked her too out of existence, like dust mite astray the bin?
the burnt edges of my aunt’s brother’s chin, where friction caught like bullet like life fleeing holy brain;
just to be burnt once more and scattered to the sea.
)

burnt edges are yummy though!
yes, yes. as you were
(
the most beautiful part of your body,
edges delineated
)
as you will.