Your tomatoes are like lines from an E. E. Cummings poem,
affirming what is yes through what was strange,
seemingly unthinkable. My scarlet muses ride in green
lettuce to my eager mouth, its saliva kissing you.
Though you lack any creamy dairy products,
your bread is practically a cheese unto itself,
and many a bovine who stared at your grainy skin,
cast in the hue and delicacy of mozzarella, would nod
in approval. You shed mayonnaise, your white
blood cells rushing to defend my
taste buds from ill tidings.
Crunching into your ham, I think of PETA
and its support of artificial meat. I can only
wish that laboratories hasten their magic
so that this sweet pink substance
may herald the here and now
with the loudest humanists
and without the taint of any death
anywhere. The test tubes are spires
to the laboring scientist’s cathedral.
As he mixes their muscle cells
into the broth, he stares down at
the pigs, hungry in appetite
and curiosity, while they stand before
their trough, a pew for a late congregation.
His priest’s collar as white
and dapper as his open coat,
he preached, “Fear not, holy swine!
The kingdom of heaven shall come
My tale of the lab must have bored you,
for I don’t see you anywhere.
Sitting in my kitchen, I can only wait for your return.