No delicacy, no food-worship here.
The last person to play connoisseur
I’m buying bulk in produce only
for the blender’s insatiable need
for fresh green of every shade
and texture—long-stemmed velvet
spinach, dry-ruffled flounces of kale
red-veined lady’s-fans of dark chard
(oh, less proud now than in the garden)—
I think nothing of beauty as I toss them
to the blade.
And fruit—you oranges
only pulp and rind and sticky juice;
seedy strawberries, blueberries
snatched from jewel-gleam dreams
of crowning a whipped-cream pillow;
apples seized from their still-life
in the blue bowl not to be thinly sliced
glazed, nested in a flaky pie-crust, no—
all destined for purplish mush, pulverized
with these rough fibrous neighbors
drowned in coconut water!
slurped through a straw
A food poem for NaPoWriMo Day 6.