It appears before me and it goes down,
The pattern repeats itself again and again
With the most minimal of thought or attention
On my part at least; it seems that my stomach
Is more interested in the plans of others.
It sits now like an anchor, swimming in
Mysterious liquids and reefs of food that
Are unwilling to lose their form and pass
Gracefully towards the exit of my body.
This ungrateful guest cannot look forward no,
It always looks back and even now asks
To return to the place where it gave the greatest pleasure;
First it wants to go to the mouth where its
Internal being was savored and delighted in,
Dancing here then there as the gnashing of gears
Brought out further nuance of flavor and texture.
Then, it wants to go back to when it was only a
Temptation,
An ecstasy of hyperbolic expectation that was
Placed in from of me and knew that I was interested,
Like a beautiful girl who stands with her hip thrust out
Looking into the distance and absently stroking her hair, knowing
Full well the admiration being cast upon her from all sides.
But no, I do not want this food to return to its glorified and exalted state
Because I know that food, like people, can never go home.
If it tried it would be a rotten memory, directions followed for a
Machine whose parts have changed.
I can taste the acridity now, the shock and horror the earth probably feels
When it shoots jets of water up from a geyser, the resigned no, no, no…
And then the puddle of remains, the detached curiosity with which they
Eye gazes upon what it could not work on, realizing that beans and fish
Are digested more quickly than corn and that this food,
In trying to go back to the time it was happiest,
Has spoiled itself for at least a few weeks,
Possibly even longer.