Viand Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

She set the viand before me,
not the rice — the rice was the silence —
but the dish that carried mother's laughter
and the salt of every story she never told.

Bring me the viand,
the one seasoned with memory,
the one that turns a blessing
into something the tongue understands.

Upon the long oak table lay the viands,
each one a small proclamation
that winter had not taken everything.

The viand was simple,
but it made potatoes feel less alone.

Every culture has its viand —
the dish that says today matters,
the dish that says you are not eating only to live.








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