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Love me Lord, love me at least a bit, don’t let me burn those vegetables, and the house along with them.
Love thy neighbour, like a cook, who is wavering over whether to add salt or pepper.
The fire of this kitchen inferno, it does not dwindle,
so love me, like a foodie his meals, because we won’t last long
fighting with knives. Listen, forgive me the smoke
that floats around the house, for I too have loved you
when I started frying those veggies. You know, Father,
when the fire gets cross and oil shoots into my eyes,
when my head becomes empty of everything save fat and detergent,
I become someone else, scorching like chicken skin.
Look at these heaps of dirty dishes and the thick oil inside
аnd at us, committed in your likeness and image.
Look, the fire above the oil is reaching the ceiling:
You have thrown us out of heaven, from under the apple trees and into an infernal kitchen.

Yet I still crave an apple, like a drug.
Yet I still desire Adam’s lips.
So love me, God, don’t let me miss
тhe moment when it’s time to twist the oven knob.
So love me, God, do not let me, by God, hurt my bowels like a heart.

translated by oksana maksymchuk and max popelysh-rosochynsky

the original poem