Recipe For Loving Yourself
Hermit Crab Poetry
By Diamond Forde and Dustin Brookshire
Preheat your inner saboteur to 425 degrees F. Use pride for kindling, each matchstick “can't” or “should” cindered & curling like ribbons beneath the heat.
Gather all the voices from your youth: the bullies, the older siblings, the teachers——your father who taught you early that wishing would never be enough——your mother who recruited you as sous chef to her narcissism, showed you how to chop her critics like onions, to peer between the pearlescent peels, each layer leading you closer to the core of her.
Wash away that grime, that grit, that grayed aura greening into lush leaves——be mindful of your tenderness, your buds soothing open in water.
Take a five-minute break. Walk outside. Find clouds. Say aloud what you see: a flower, a dragon, a hermit crab scuttling over sand. If there are no clouds, lay on the ground, arms by your side, palms touching the damp grass, let the cool earth swaddle you.
Return.
Breathe.
Remove self-doubt from the deep freeze, shake the blistering cold, then grate into the bowl like potatoes, parsnips, another root with a drive to survive.
Find what delights you——search the cabinets, the pantry, the spice rack tucked beside the fridge——look for joy's great garden——coriander, cardamom, paprika blooming poppies along the tongue. (Use a step stool if you have to. Embrace the last-minute store run. Be the dish you want to be——or have been: Southern child with a She-Ra shirt stained with blackberries, before the world over-saturated your self view, back when you pranced proudly, sashayed through the living room with a proofed belly blooming, like a baker prepping the perfect bread.)
Permit the uncomfortable cling. Do not use the nonstick pan. No olive oil or Pam. Do not second guess this step. History stays crusted to the bottom——use it like your grandmother’s cast iron skillet, time-worn and glistening, but let go of the hurt your mother swirled into sangria like spoiled fruit——when she would pour you a glass, the rot funneling beneath your chin, saying, sip.
Then watch. Even the oven light, merciful guardian, stays vigilant over this making. And this is not a quiet activity. This is not a souffle——you will stomp, romp, dance in the kitchen while you wait, sing as loud as you have to——Dolly, Tina, Chappell Roan——and when song is not an option——scream.
Bake, but be prepared to bake for days. *Note that a longer bake is not a reflection of your commitment to yourself. If done right, one bake is rarely enough. Learn to be comfortable with uncomfortable heat. Turn the AC down. Fly the windows open. Flip the fan switch spinning on high. If you don’t feel the heat, recheck each step. Savor the slow burn: this is what healing requires.
Repeat——repeat——repeat.
Diamond Forde is the author of Mother Body, a 2022 Kate Tufts Discovery award finalist. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Ninth Letter, Tupelo Quarterly, and more. You can find out more at her website: diamondforde.com.
Dustin Brookshire’s chapbooks include Never Picked First For Playtime (Harbor Editions, 2023), Love Most Of You Too (Harbor Editions, 2021), and To The One Who Raped Me (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2012). He is the co-editor of Let Me Say This: A Dolly Parton Poetry Anthology (Madville Publishing, 2023), which is a Nautilus Book Awards Silver medal recipient and named to the 2024 “Books All Georgians Should Read” list by the Georgia Center for the Book. Find him online at dustinbrookshire.com.
