Gradualist analysts
joined the serendipidists
to announce that food is chemotherapy,
is synesthesia, branch of philosophy
like philandery or adorationist’s sola fide.
There were days of fast.
There were tapas days.
The closest penetrations & permutations
studied with binoculars or with specula eyes
tongued, fingered, spooned,
were character portraits
drawn in morsels of paint.
There were chorus rounds rousingly remembered.
There was echoed ennui of disremembered apéritif.
Shimmering multicolor hungers --
slight or desperate or often --
become feasts of preposition --
of, on, below, above --
seeking best taste’s best position.
The accessible:
arroz con pollo, capers, arugula
avocado, pico de gallo, salsa verde, mojado
Cayenne pepper, lemon juice-laced
olives fat as nipples.
The less so steamed oregano bruschetta with saltines
& garlic blood-saline
& fully engorged gangs of Pixian doubanjiang
& déshabillé of crackers
& still-undiscovered pasteles.
There were Tête à Têtes of equals.
There were moments your flavor overwhelmed.
Thus was heaven pureed, squeezed, drizzled,
its artichoke capaccio laid bare
by a caramelized year
of your sharp fork brought again & again
down into your besotted Saguaro fruit.
for Ann 19 JUL 2009