Pho Real

I am so HUNGRY
because I am taking 
this Cyclospora outbreak
like the panic-seasoned 
survivalist I am.

I have evaded Ebola
and I marked myself safe 
from Polio
if not chicken pox
and from the Jack in the Box 
E. coli scandal 
of the nineteen hundreds
and from Mad Cow
and from Bird Flu
and from Covid-19
— at least, for a long while — 
and from Screwworm.

But here I am,
craving Girl Dinners (TM)
of dirty Caesar salads 
with nebulous lettuces 
of unknown origins
and condensation-dripping martinis 
with uncooked lemon twists.

And I won't break my streak
I must stay alive
and so we order Pho instead.
And I skip my favorite part:
the raw sprouts
the fresh lime
the sprigs of purple basil.

Instead, I allow the 
pale rounds of onion
and the slight leaves of cilantro
and two rounds of jalepeno 
to sit in the broth 
that I cooked iteratively 
for eight minutes 
on High 
in my microwave, 
willing away 
the single-celled demons
that so clearly want 
to cause explosive diarrhea 
in my guts.

It is the height of summer
and I am eating boiling soup
to avoid falling victim
to the latest disaster
that our government 
has gifted us.
(Where's the receipt? I want to return this!)

I eat my decoration-free Pho.
And it is still good,
as only comfort food 
stripped down to nothing 
can be.

But my mouth, 
fiery from Sriracha
and burning from lava hot broth
thirsts for fresh tomatoes
and crunchy cabbage
and delicate herbs
and fear-free berries
and crudites 
and garnish in my beverages
and unpeeled apples
and the confidence 
that comes only 
with a committed denial 
to harsher truths.

Until I can trust 
the produce aisle again,
I'm gonna keep it
Pho Real.