THE WOMAN ON MY LEFT IS REACHING FOR A ROLL
The woman on my left is reaching for a roll.
Her arm extends, half-grown, half made.
Her better nature reaches for white turnips,
red beets, roots mad with mud. A glade
of skittering wings blows her off her chair.
She leaves the bleeding mound of custard on her plate
and wonders how much blood is too much blood?
Her tail is growing, itching to be flicked. Too late
for feeling homesick in the bone. Too late
for dinner party chat, for well-bred conversation.
She feels the swell of egg and yolk inside her.
What wrathful god invented this migration?
Just when she thinks that wings can take her
home, she gets off track, and moves from slack
to taut. I see her now, a reflection of her former
self below the ceiling of the sea, her fins laid flat.
But look! She likes it here! This landscape rife
with fertility, her cutlery laid out to slice
a map in two and dig to China with a large and heavy
spoon. She makes it up. And down. The device
that brought her here can always take her home.
For the farther one travels, the higher chance
of cure. She consults her compass and it points
only to her center. Her arms begin to dance.
The dinner guests are infected with the tune,
Then everyone is reaching for a roll. We remove
our filaments of fear and logic. Joy is biting
the backs of our legs. We dare to see our shadows move.
IMAGE: from the blog Mimi Eats: http://mimieats.tumblr.com/