As a Black man, with a protruding belly, who loves food, I hate having to negotiate whether or not a burger and fries are aesthetically pleasing to my interviewer. My self-consciousness always leads me to choose the spring salad with grilled chicken and a drizzle of Italian dressing. I wash the saltiness of the salad down with a cup of still water because belching from a carbonated drink seems a bit juvenile. During the interview, my mind juggles the interview questions and the concern of a dark green leaf stuck between my teeth. There are moments when the questions require me to stop eating because “intersectionality” and “theoretical framework” can only be pronounced with an empty mouth. The frequent pauses throughout leave my salad warm and wilted. Unsatiated, I push the plate to the side. My stomach makes up for the lack of belching with a rumbling echo.

Dessert is an option, but at the same time, it isn’t. I can never keep the chocolate chip cookie crumbs (even the soft-baked) from getting into my beard. I can’t be taken seriously when a pink cupcake is crusted on my upper lip. Then, I have to play “how many licks does it take to dissolve frosting before my interviewer thinks I am being inappropriate?”

Have you ever thought of the racial implications of choosing a dessert? I didn’t until I had an interview in Georgia. It was a humid day, with the temperature being ten degrees hotter under my black suit. I skipped the pastries and headed towards the seemingly innocent fruit bar. Unfortunately, there was only a bowl of apples and freshly cut watermelon wedges. While I knew I could benefit from the hydration and refreshing taste, I didn’t feel comfortable widening my mouth and accentuating my lips to eat watermelon in front of my white interviewer. I made the biblical mistake of choosing the apple, which was a warm, overripe mush.

The dread of a lunch interview exists beyond the eating area and past my first day of work. The discomfort returns when I sit at my desk, eating another salad, because an hour is not enough time to eat and digest my leftover shrimp biryani from last night. My boss walks to my desk to ask me some “urgent” questions about work because I have already proven that my stomach can handle it. In those moments, all I can think about is how good that burger looked with those Cajun fries.

my ugly feelings run wild. like children at a restaurant: screaming, crying

as if it’s the end of the world. is it not? all three of my friends i still talk to

say they can’t leave the house without wanting to cry, or that community is just

one more unkempt room in the house of the collective unconscious. who wants to

touch a bird with a bloody hole in its stomach, pick it up and let it die on the

palm of their hand? my favorite people will do it, even give them flowers in

the backyard, a proper burial. others will run it over, try to flatten

it into the concrete. like they do everything else. it’s not that they want to,

i tell myself, but it’s all they know. condescending bitch, the other voice

says, slinging rocks at the glass cabinet where i keep my love for them for fear

i will lose it. how do you write a poem when you know what you have to say?

i’m not subtle. not nina begging not to be misunderstood, but more like the

nina music guy tells me about: pulling the gun on the record exec that

stiffed her. hysterical, he hints, but in her sharp edges, i understand kin.