she’ll never be
what she won’t eat
she’ll never be
a piece of meat
on display again

not a poet
turning beet
red or blood orange
from the flawed flow
of the second stanza

she’ll never be
a string bean
or pear-shaped

she was a fish
but no more
little water for her

refuses to lounge
on a half shell
or fly away home
preserved no longer
fermented

she wants to collapse
in a field
dig a hole
where she can bury
her limbs and heart

before it’s too late
before she becomes
toxic again
and begins to eat
her own words

figs and nightshades
aniseed and truffles
sea vegetables
and coconut
dirt and other aphrodisiacs