The Last Eclair | Mary Bone
The last éclair
was lying there,
with oozy, gooey, goodness,
I’d eaten my fair share-
I just couldn’t resist,
just one more.
food poems
Shattering Split of a Dumpling’s Beauty | Christine Emmert
Pale yellow as winter sun I pared it away
under the knife
urging it open to my sight.
Breaking through the round perfect globe of a dumpling.
There was that sigh
that came from this execution.
A sigh that we break perfection
for the sake of our own gluttony.
And then
I lift the fork
to my lips
to taste what I desire.
My assassination of the dumpling.
The gravies on my plate draw back.
The witness to my crime.