ENTREE-VOUS

I expect my head served on a platter any day now

for all manner of actual or suspected sins;

Obviously I won't eat, but the rest of you indulge.

Warning:   I'm not that tasty, not very big on

sweetness much less light, so bring on

carousels of condiments.

In that severed pantry you will find

many unsavory or just bland things  --

a childhood rich with privilege but

questionable on love, a nasty adolscence

but not in the usual exciting ways,

and many discreet if raging barbecues:

bat-blind ambition, bat-deaf accomplishment,

an intransigent morbidity,

a world of unresolved, lascivious guilt,

and an obstinacy making of all,

sinewy chewing.  Amass tenderizers.

There are not many juicy parts,

just the usual falling in love, birthing

of children, and, if anything hot at all,

the rejection by one man which sent me

flying into the arms of another,

but even that didn't play out.

Consider powdered chili here.

Jalapenos.  Gobs of garlic.

Expect no drama, floods of salty tears,

or even honeyed reconciliation

(amass syrups, powdered chocolate,

confectioner's sugar in bulk),

because man #1 was grateful to man #2

for unsticking his own eyes.

You might skip the entree altogether and

gorge instead on just spices and sides,

some decadent desserts and delectable old port,

or a half a dozen stiff brandies.

I wonder if a beheaded offering is more alluring

open or shut-eyed;  not that it matters to me.

Just choose your carve.

I'll soon be in heady digestion by grubs

that could care less about my stories.

copyright Julianza Shavin 2008