manna 

god makes a lot of noise in the kitchen,
dropping the steel bowls-- clang of measuring
cups & the groan of the garbage disposal.
he woke me up in the middle of the night
with his antics, up making manna. 
why my kitchen, then? i asked & he just
kept working. i can be sure of one thing,
it won't taste like egg plant. my father doesn't
like eggplant so my mother never makes it,
though, sometimes she'll slip it sneaky
into a casserole or a stew. god doesn't use
the crock pot. god uses the oven &
a stove top sauce pan. i had no idea it
was so involved. on the stone basement floor
are waiting the israelites in exodus.
they talk in hushed voice when i open
to creaky door at the top of the stairs,
all looking up, crouched on their knees between
cardboard boxes of christmas 
& halloween decorations. some of the little 
ones pluck out ornaments & dangle them from 
their fingers. i asked them nicely to 
put them back. dad, of course, watches god
cooking, a big metal serving spoon in his hand.
did she make slop again? he asks, sleep
talking again, thinking god is my mother.
god ignored him & added a pinch of cumin
(the only spice i know that tastes like its
colors). so tell me then god, what does
it taste like? he doesn't answer, rolling
the pastry thin. chopping the onions thin.
the eggplant in half. the apple into ribbons.
he takes spoonfuls as he goes so i scooch
in closer, tearing a corner off the sheet 
of golden dough. he tells me that to everyone
it tastes different. i hope that for my
father it will taste like eggplant.
my mother holds one of the purple plants
in her arms like a baby, cradling it
back & forth until god bathes it olive oil
ready for the pan. the manna tasted like
cotton candy & cuticles. like chewed aluminum 
& sliced tomatoes. like the unripe peach 
you once fed me in your backyard. god laughed,
tearing a corner off for himself and saying
yes, it is an acquired taste.