ZACH SEMEL

1

“Where’s the beef?” someone says. Tom Colicchio holds up a tiny radish
and shakes his head, “Dainty, dainty,” the plant almost breaking between 
his fingers. It’s muscly proteins that he wants: food that can withstand
being torn apart with bare hands, gnashed between teeth with what care
he decides it deserves.


2

Morning affirmation: men don’t see
you and notice every flaw
as often as you think, no
evaluative eyes peeking
into shower stalls; don’t worry, men
don’t take you in
for longer than a glance.


3

Dish concept: using proprietary technology,
the taste of my finger
in a man’s mouth
without them ever needing to come
close to my bony wrists.


4

My partner’s ex would only eat
cheeseburgers and who wouldn’t
want that
in another person: to be
welcomed like
American cheese oozing
between fingers, sweet
taste of iron making teeth ring.


5

Sometimes I think I smell
the problem
trapped in the back

of my fridge: that I could never prepare
myself carefully enough to share
this body, spoon myself
between lips, be a broth

dripping from chins.
I lie in bed and wonder:
are these legs like roots
growing out of bedsheets, dirt
crumbs clinging to hairs, every inch
a tangled mess of cells?


6

On No Reservations, there was a chef
who tried his own tasting menu every month
because if you don’t love what you make
how could anyone else?


7

Google suggests that I take a look
at Padma Lakshmi’s scar; all at once I remember
how curious we can be, how inquisitive
fingers may seek out imperfections
to be close to, arrows on the body
gesturing towards the parts that want
to be found.


8

Dish concept: my skin shivering
against a metal plate, family-style
flesh for four-to-six, full table
of hands fighting for mouthful after mouthful,
call my stretch marks marbling.


9

Recipe:
1.  Pancakes in the morning (after)
2.  a man who knows to put wet in after dry
3.  warm butter falling into flour
4.  oil licks off fingers
5.  eggs, sugar, salt
6.  him flipping pancakes
7.  skillful wrist
8.  his fingers wrapped around the panhandle tight
9.  like his palm could swallow it all in one gulp


10

Morning affirmation: you look like the sun gave you attention
while you sat in soil, like if you were served
raw, all the wispy fibers (your loose, shaking parts)
would send light back out: chlorophyll flares
singeing diners’ hair. It’s sunny and clear, but I still see you
from a mile away. Even if your neon glow
was just a road-stop sign, I’d want to pull over and eat.

ZACH SEMEL (he/him) is a poet and essayist with an MFA in Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University. Some of his previous work has appeared in DIAGRAM, Salamander, The Brevity Blog, CutBank: All Accounts & Mixture, Drunk Monkeys, Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, The Nervous Breakdown, Wordgathering, FreezeRay Poetry, and other places. His memoir manuscript was an Honorable Mention for the Miami Book Fair Emerging Writers Fellowship, and his chapbook Let the tides take my body was awarded the 2021 May Day Mountain Prize by Hunger Mountain.