Little food tales


The peace sliced like ham and hung out to dry,
The love diced like onions in a salad,

Bring forth the platter of conscience,
Fill the pitcher with some dry humour,

Serve me. I’m the kill.
Carve the delicate turkey with a rueful knife,
I’m the red meat, the dead sarcasm.

“Pour out some sauce, right here, in this corner.
Patience does make the plate look good!”

Pop that bottle of merry, white champagne,
And drown this brownie in a flood of ecstatic joy.

Instead, Tempted, I lie wasted like fish bones on the side dish,
Cracked and beaten I wither like rotten spinach,
Dread creeps into my mind like pale plums.

Sorrowful and overwhelmed I clean out the refrigerator in haste.
Out goes the string beans and papayas,
the broccoli and pears,
No more eggs and bacon,
No more mayo and mustard.

Done. I’m done with all the eating and drinking.
Let me sleep. Let me sleep a while now.
Let the words feed me, let me drink in music,
let me breathe in the colours,
let me hunger for truth and love
let me hunger for truth and love.


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