Still Hungry

Still Hungry



About the book

In Still Hungry, Alisa Gordaneer serves up poems with deceptively tasty titles like “Artichoke,” “Plum Jam,” “Ganache,” “Pollo Con Chili” and “Raspberry Pie.” But this is no poetic cookbook. Instead, Gordaneer questions the provenance of our food, exploring our relationship with it and with those who eat—or don't. Her poems are delectable meditations on how food shapes the crucial moments in our lives — moments of intimacy, friendship, betrayal, and rebirth. The result is a a thoughtful, sumptuous read that will leave you both sated and craving more.

About the author

Gordaneer, Alisa

Alisa Gordaneer is a poet, writer and editor who has taught at the University of British Columbia, the University of Victoria, Camosun College and Royal Roads University. She has worked as a newspaper editor, communications consultant and freelance journalist, and writes a regular column for Victoria’s Boulevard Magazine. A member of the League of
Canadian Poets, she has won many awards for her poetry and nonfiction.



Fluorescent overheads lean wicked against 6 a.m., Thursday, another day as August ages into what it’s owed, one more hot spell before the leaves turn. Sun a yolk in white fog, orange sulfur lamps still humming over the I-89 interchange and the Comfort Inn breakfast room where a too-young grandmother to four girls is letting mama have her shower in peace and quiet, and put that down young lady the baby swatting a plastic spoon into pink Froot-Looped milk. It’s all supposed to be a treat, even the cook-your-own waffles poured from plastic cups into the automatic iron, chirping messily. Like the cooler with plastic pots of peach yogurt, blank eyeballs of peeled eggs, factory farming even here where the fields roll rustic into avocado green and harvest gold. A state trooper with the uncanny profile of your absent lover drips three more creamers into Styrofoam. Later, he’ll pull you over, won’t remember how you stared blankly at the closed-captioned TV, tearful over Lebanon, how you stirred and stirred cup after cup until you just had to leave. How your shaking hands hovered over a brown Formica table where you misplaced a chip of eggshell, he couldn’t know how you ached after a night that was, after all, also only a fragment, the whole road between then and now too long to keep driving this fast. How you now know that even sweet time disintegrates, Coffee Mate into a dark cup, enlightenment without substance. How children leave crumbs behind, and you, weeping with a crumpled napkin, sweeping up.



As always in September I wake
in sloping peach-yellow mornings and remember
there have been too few peaches this summer

know that as many furred skins as have prickled my lips,
as many slick crevices as have fallen beneath your teeth,
there have never been enough. 

The sun lowering like overripe fruit is only a reminder,
and so is the moon grown pregnant and gold,
and the baskets of pumpkins where once were peaches

just moments ago. As always in September—
and yet the days lean into winter and far away
I know I’ll wish for jam 

but I spent the season
lingering in your arms, feeding you peaches,
sure (then) that winter would feel as warm.


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