At five or six, a legendary picky eater, I’d resist
The dinner set before me. Mother would reference
“the starving Armenians” painting a picture
Of hungry children who’d give anything for my
Full plate. Guilt swept me. I didn’t know
Any Armenians, nothing of their history, only
That my rejection of perfectly good food
Could seal their fate.
 
I gingerly took a forkful of canned peas
That, even today, I still hate
And swallowed them whole
I think now, that somewhere, Armenians
Were smirking at that child who would have
Done as well to contemplate her forebears,
The starving Irish on the coffin boats headed
For this shore where we all should weep
For all the hungry and oppressed,
Never, never forget,
Never refuse the largesse
We’re so damn lucky to possess.