Saturday, February 27, 2010

Fights over Food

Our most serious fights revolve
Around food. I don’t
Mean we fight in crates of bananas
Or throw punches up with the tangerines
I mean the toughest decisions we make are daily
Ones about whether we’ll have salad or steak
Certain soups or sultry spices and who will dish
Out the time to prepare, pound and puzzle through
Independent and experimental flavors. We’ve never
Made the same thing twice. Never.

You sneak in the fat free cheeses, wheat tortillas, meat
Substitutes to keep my heart rate low and adrenaline
High. I sneak snacks: dollar donation homemade cookies,
Free samples, fast foods, all things unrefined when you aren’t
Around. A round, that’s what I’ll be. My nickname miss
Fatty McFatterson. I’m guilty. But what you don’t see…

You taste the salt and oil on my lips, the remnants of fried
The sugar of sweets, a two dollar cupcake, simple items
That won’t show up on the credit card. But you know
My mouth so well. When I water, when I satisfy, when I am
Satisfied, when my mouth has been yours from moon to moon

Nourishing begins with a handful of seeds, the choice to be planted
And though they’ve been, and are watered and whispered to
To grow, they sprout up in angles of evasiveness, roots that circle
Like belts around the obese, like hollow chambers of instruments with broken
Strings, like the unraveled wrist ties of so many skyward bound balloons

Catch me, catch me, and tie me down with the weeds that grew higher
Than our intended edibles. Force me to feed upon your flowers. Warm
Yams and green beans, dumpling droplets and creamy tortellini
All thrown in and we’ll stew in the kitchen.
Catch me, catch me, and roll me into a cellar to think on it
Until I’ve aged finely, and even then when I duck into the sock drawer
Where I’ve preserved a secret stash, you peel
Onions in front of me so that my tears flow
For reasons easily explained to across alley neighbors, current roommates
Uninvited guests. This is between me and you and the bark
And the crushed peppers. We will step on them together, squeeze out
The seeds and smear them with a wooden spoon. Our appetite will return
To the cutting board when weary of our own habits. Where we will find
An apple dripping from its red skin, painted in a layer of peanut butter
With dark ribbons curls tied down on their sticky backs

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