Catastrophic,
catatonic, and
isn’t it just fucking
ironic that you’re
doing well? I read
about you in the paper.
Can you believe it?
There I was,
eating eggs,
turned a page,
and it was you
in print, third page.
Chef, they called you,
at a five star hotel,
and to the left,
a photo
where you’re looking well.
The reporter names
you visionary,
mentions your pâté
but I want to know if
your patrons know what
you get up to all day- surely
predators don’t take holiday
and say! What is your
soup of the day?
Does it earn you good pay?
Because I’m just thinking,
in a kitchen that’s stinking,
I am three months late
with rent, spent,
spread thin between
post traumatic toast and
biphobic butter
so I can’t help but wonder
how much they pay for your
service?
I hate how you’ve resurfaced
but at least now there’s a warning:
young chef to watch out for!
They don’t quite know how
right they are.
Jenn Lee is a queer feminist, writer and poet. They are a doctoral candidate examining queer identity politics and textual representation. They pay heed to the riot’s true mothers and extend their hand to all their siblings fighting for revolution. More of their writing can be found at Jleewriter.com.