so she was, re-cooked poem #27

I’ll never tire of eating, 

of dressing myself as a table

a placemat, 

a cup of water drooling from the corners of my mouth

bread thighs

a soup between my legs, 

you ask for seconds, a hopeful glutton

I am a meal of things past expiration

a too unripened 

a too sweet

a just right

a lukewarm

brittle cakes for breasts

marinated legs, a trophy kill

lips of  Escargots a la Bourguignonne

I am unsalted butter

parsley, white wine, brandy, garlic cloves and shallots masticated

You are the pepper and salt.

You’ll never tire of eating. 

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