Serve Me Over Ice


 Pour me out of a crystal pitcher

Sob a lemon in with me

Far from ripe; probably too sour

Practice your spit takes with me

Pull the carving knife off the whetstone

Slice my face off with a cold cut

Take your small golden forks

This meat may be tough

Not food for thought,

This is, I am, what Chinese Kings

Called a delicacy

Karma calls me as a long-distance lover

Direct her to voicemail

For my tongue slithers through grass

Eating all golden and delicious

The pits in the pit of my stomach

Arterially tumbling into polished ghost notes

Broken little lexical me

Put me back together?

No, the opposite

Pin my arteries to cork

Drop globs of me into chemicals

Watch me turn colors one should not use for home décor

Take me out of the packaging

Find my instructions

Translate them into any language

That I might understand



 Published at Twenty Two Twenty Eight