Our dead parents food-shame each other in an afterworld insulated with bricks of devil’s food cake, mortared with pestilence.
Mortify your own fucking flesh, you martyrs without a cause. Whip some sick cream.
Get it while it’s fresh.
Deals with demons don’t come for free. An apple a day doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The string bean wish of the mother stings. The sin of the father knows best. We set
burnt maple tables with guilt-green linen at their behest. I picture them playing chess with carved-carrot pawns
for a prize of raw prawn on buttered bread. A toast to the chef!
And to his full retinue who have prepared this tasting (of-your-own-medicine) menu:
• Beelzebub’s syllabub (Recipe is on the syllabus, bud!)
• Microwaved turkey rotting in a garage
• A barrage of pepperoni, deep-fried in shallow shame
• Aspartamed yogurt
• Wild game gone rancid with Farmer’s Marble slices
• Pie spices on the stove mulling over just nothing
• A model of a pound of flesh on the desk at Diet Centre Paperweight Wait—
What can we eat instead?
Let me gnaw your neck hairs. Summon letdown milk like cantaloupe juice.
Low-hanging fruit. High steaks. Breast-milk milkshake.
Shake and break my thighs in two towards you, glorious you.
Goosebumps; gooseberries; choked-up chokecherries.
Nourish me with moreish milk. Do we do our bodies well?
We are rusty blood-crusted bicuspid cavities, filled and filled and filled.
How many people are on diets the day they die? Will St. Michael catch their good sides?
At the gates, I am fat Vitruvian man— symmetrical chins and nutcracking quads akimbo.
Befores and afters make life just limbo.
So we straddle each other to oar away in a blue canoe, laugh like loons on a river with a stupid settler name
while paddling away through familial flame.