October 24, 2025

by TRYCENT MILIMO

The Chef

Volcano burns hot

In my mountain cave

Where a motel owner served me a room

A microwave on the wall,

Cutlery on the counter,

And a sink near the exit door

I stand beside the hot disc

With a spatula in my hand

Alone, like Devil’s Island on the Zambezi River

In a smoky, foggy, burning closet

I am the chef of all time

Flipping basil for your benefit

Burning chives is my choice

My passion

My livelihood

The apron on my chest should shrink me

But it turns me into an elephant.

Building a mansion on my fresh

This heat is a leg of my body

Ear to your tongue’s saliva

Quieting your diaphragm’s choir

I will sow your stomach

With herbs born in my garden

Cabbage, carrot, onion, and green pepper

Hugging themselves in a single bowl

Because I am the chef.