Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Ode to the fry

I.
Long and slender
like fingers
of a pianist,
other times
broad, almost Rubenesque,
your forms and moods
would sometimes change.
Your skin glistened
a golden tan,
and inside
you were crushed gardenias—
soft and white.
You were best
when sizzling;
I savored your taste
against my lips!
All this:
my portrait of you.
II.
Yet I chose
to wash my guilty
hands of you,
your touch greasy,
your scent
of spent fat oft
now repulsive.
O former fry
of my eye,
you were a houseguest
who would stay
too long—
the way
you would cling
to the gullible
roof of my mouth
with your blatant essence,
my former excess.
III.
I promise to remember
you with youthful lust,
you, wonder
of my innocence!
You, whom I have left
for another—
tossed in olive oil
and roasted—
were far too deadly
for my heart.
“Fry”—also known as “chip," e.g., in the UK.
Megaera, Spring 2006 (No. 25)
Alas, I couldn't stay away forever. 

4 comments:

  1. thanks ...
    'course, I was being pretty silly here, but I guess there's some "truth in jest"!?

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  2. Oh, but when done well, as with steak and pommes frittes, they are so good.

    Adelaide

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    Replies
    1. :)

      I make my own version every now and then (as I say in my ode): toss various kind of potatoes (sometimes sweet potatoes) in olive oil, sprinkle them with basil and a tiny bit of salt, then bake them in the toaster oven. But when "he" orders fries at restaurants, I do steal a few of them.

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