In this world where we live
where we work, we merge
sauteed, offered to you
on a fine china plate
with a lid. We are bread,
we are chicken. We sizzle,
we steam. Like a boneless
tilapia bursting with pearls
and pearls of hot meat,
we pink. We hide beneath
your pyramid napkin and wait,
or sleep. The knife screams,
the fork screams, the spoon
screams loudest of all.
What have we done?
What have we done?
Your fingers itch whitely,
greenly, readily; and snap.
They are dumber than we are;
they are dumber than pens.
They are so timid, we shiver
at your cleaner glass.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts