Parable of The Chicken Wing
~ after Robyn
It used to be bodies were all lesson,
from each a new shiny thing
to be stored then taken down
for the next caller, to be served up,
laid out. I have hustled
recipes as if they were lovers,
spread them flat, put my feet
& back into, spilled over them
all sorts of raw & red things; I can burn
pots & got scars enough as proof.
Here now, another pot luck.
each lugging a similar thing. Baby,
we been tongue & paw for days
but I tire of the shallow pan.
My nights grow deep
& my shelves buckle, bulge,
moan their dismay. Truth of it is,
sweet tongue of a boy,
fire ain't always the same kinda hot.
Overnight, it seems, I've gotten old,
grown more than a little hungry, fear
my wings to be done but yours not.
