"Algorithm for a Cabbage Canard"
for MGF
Assure the cabbage
you grip the cleaver
not to slice but to dream
yourself executioner.
Tell it to sleep as it has slept,
deep in the drawer
of drowsy carrot breath
and tomato snores.
House the leafy texture
of fear in the oily cool
of your palm – don't intimate
even by whisper
tomorrow's meal requires a vegetable
to stew. Some sort of roughage, eh?
Independent of your hunger
are the things around you, even the reticent
refrigerated who speak
only in scent and flavor.
Their hearts each a mere
twinkling.
© 2008 Hephaestes
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