Making Lunch
MMy mind wrinkles its nose up
at the rusty edges of lettuce
“don’t eat it. It’s old.”
But then the better half replies,
“Oxidation, like the wrinkles
of my skin,
taking me closer
to the vegetal stage.”
I smile at this,
knowing that I become via my dust
a crisp green leaf of the future.
I become that which feeds me
verdant blades becoming bone again
and muscle, tendon, gristle,
enjoying now myself
under my teeth, chewing.
Perhaps I eat today a note,
or two, of Mozart
a couplet or so of a poet
who once fell upon a meadow
and was grazed upon.
B.L.P. Simmons was born in St. Lucia, West Indies, into a family of artists. The richness of her native island inspired and nourished her love for expression. Her poems have appeared in various collections in the California Bay Area. She’s published two books of poems, Shadow and Reflection and A Year of Saturdays, and is currently preparing a third collection for publication.