Catapult Alumni | Poetry

I’m First Cut Today

This poem was written by Sophie Christenberry in a 12-Month Poetry Collection Generator taught by Angel Nafis

The chef Gabrielle Hamilton says she is joining with Ken Friedman, who has been accused of sexual harassment by women who worked at his restaurants, to run the Spotted Pig, the West Village restaurant where much of the harassment is said to have taken place.

–Kim Severson and Julia Moskin, New York Times June 13th, 2018

White peach five o’clock

              patio

it’s summer and these people want

to talk to me

    about Anthony Bourdain.

        I approach the table to ask

        have they dined here before

and they sing

          why is the restaurant closing?

Because of his

death?

    was close to him, we know.

          Like

            they

              know.

              My boss lives in Vegas.

They ask me

what did you think of that?

His death

        they mean.

They say

  O who’s that guy?

    the restaurant guy?

         the #MeToo guy?

            On television?

                 And I can’t help myself

                 at all.

                 I say

O you’ll have to be more

          specific.

      I say ?

      I say ?

      I say Ken Friedman?

      I say ?

        They don’t know who that is.

They look at me expectantly,

  they mean

  Mario Batali but I

  have nothing

  to give to them.

They look at me expectantly

and I ache the party line,

        , , ,

needs time, the rents are higher

      now, it’s hard to own

            a restaurant,

      it’s New York City, and then

me and their cocktails
to the point of sale.

                       Twelve day countdown to the end

                         of this world and in the morning

                         we sat

                             O sunflower early

                           and read in silence

                     in new whites,

                               in t-shirts,

                            in pre-shift,

                      inside the red of rice bowls,

                inside our bowls

                of tomato salad, before

                putting on our make-up, after

               finishing our mise, a thousand

                           grains of rice hot handful

                into plastic bags,

                         we read in silence how everyone,

           despite whatever deep transgressions

            despite violences without respite

           violences with entire rooms dedicated to them

                violences that echo

                     everyone deserves to make money.