Troy Ashcroft - Poor Man’s Pie

You are French and even

those that don’t speak

know the meaning

when you say you grew up

eating Poor Man’s Pie.

Potatoes mashed

butter browned

corn creamed and kernel sweet

beef ground and layered

some prefer peas and carrots

point of contention

but you know they know 

what you mean when you say 

you grew up Poor

Man’s Pie.

Home from school,

crockpot’s condensation, 

slow cooked

no note 

from Mum the last

roast on sale 

with potatoes, carrots

and 151 next to clear

liquor, always chosen first

(because water blends best)

smoked mango kush 

from the kid who died last

week street racing his

girl thrown from the passenger

seat helps forget

sat second in silence

a dissimilar sliced peace

first taste on tongue inebriated

evaluation rendered in whispers 

of the Poor Man.

Your family’s reunion a favorite 

cousin couldn’t make it

with another Father 

that week next time

see him, a lie.

You’d leave and never 

look back

at the family

but he would

die too 

not from the street racing 

a hospital

a text

felt from far

away.

You couldn’t make the funeral

your French family ate Poor 

Man’s Pie without

your absence felt

you left and never

looked back.

Other kids laughed 

because you ate Poor 

Man’s Pie and enjoyed

the mashed, swirled meat, 

potatoes, corn, canned carrots 

and peas in reverence to Gram

who sang her François Québécois

while browning beef and mincing

onions

she took the recipe 

when she left.

The French family knew

how to layer mash

potatoes with creamed corn 

and browned beef

but it couldn’t compare

to how she made the Poor

Man’s Pie.

She spoke her French,

but that went with her

your father never learned

to speak the language 

of love

never spoke 

of when he too 

ate Poor Man’s Pie.