Fair and mirthful
round and fearless
voluptuous mountains of juicy flesh caress green kindred coiffure
Slumbering, dreaming, throbbing in our
square plastic palace
Waiting for rain that blooms into lips, teeth
a new afterlife in Earth’s supple womb.
The strawberries poke cold and wet on the tip of her nose
(the nose itself, it should be noted, is also cold and wet)
The strawberries nod as if dimly reminiscing upon a time
when a feline like herself punctured one of their kin
A tasteless error, but one that spewed
crimson juice, a stream, perhaps a scream
nearly imperceptible beneath the wind.
This table is just the perfect size
for her to plant herself and watch the proceedings with her nose
The rustling of bags, the laboring of pantry shelves
if she is voluptuous like a strawberry
or a beautiful woman
her mind is too beautiful to know.
A martian crater
I fill it with cosmic flakes
squeeze in a fat-free precipitation of atmospheric milk.
Like meteors, the strawberries pass
the star gate of my clear-cut knife
and fall in slender shreds upon
this strange new planet
where my spaceship has landed
at this delicate time
to seal in optimum flavor
behind closed lips
painted strawberry red.
The photos in this post were both taken by Rasputina2 on Flickr.
For more poetry and fewer recipes visit aseaworthyfrigate.wordpress.com.