Day 20: Chocolate fun

Have you ever thought about how chocolate feels? No, you only think about yourself.

Prompt 20: “Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. It could be a favorite food of yours, or maybe one you feel conflicted about.” 

A bar in waiting

“Have a fruit of my labour. Have a cherry.”
“Have a part of my body. Break a leg.”
“Have all of me. I’m your iceberg.
Crush me.”

Only she is silent. Advertising nothing,
she lies in wait in her wrapper,
thinking of the first kiss, the first lick,
which will be the last of her.

She thinks of the incoming mouth.
It’s the family lore. She can feel it near.
Impatient hands tearing her up,
as if it weren’t her first time.

She is starting to melt now. Won’t be long. 
She won’t go without a fight.
She will leave some of her everywhere
as forensics recommend.

She can see the light of day
and hear a gasp and a wail.
“Oh no, mom, it’s whiiiite!
The one I hate! WHY?”

From Slovenia with love. Slovenians are carnation-happy. Cranberries in the chocolate and Tuscany below.

A stash came in a package from Slovenia. Gorenjka is Slovenian top brand, Kraš and Kandit are Croatian. A mysterious Czech cherry product on the right (or is it Slovak?). Below: favourite chicken sausage and coffee.

This was a chocolate too. And it said “I love you”. And I say: Happy 40, Alana!

The last day in my NaPoWriMo history

2018: Disobey this!

I am
a lazy
rebellious
disobedient
poet
intent on speaking
of what is left out.

Of anything
that has no gender
persuasion
ambition
babies.

Of the divisions
they force us into.

Of the fears
they instil.

Of all that prevents us
from surviving
the richest.

Except of course
if what I disobey
is everything
but my laziness.

Read all.

2019: Risk-taking

How did I tell them?  
How does one tell anybody anything?

“Parents, I’m going to Italy 
for two weeks,  
alone. In the meantime  
you can feed my boyfriend.”

I didn’t say this last. 

Read on.

2020: The garden

Have I ever come home
to a neat garden in rows
where only that morn
I had wilderness grow?

To a neat garden in rows
two men lent their hands,
I had wilderness grow
but they made it let go.

Two men lent their hands
to the gift of their hearts
but they made it let go
for my birthday with love.

To the gift of their hearts
I will always stay true,
for my birthday with love
they made me grow food.

I will always stay true
where only that morn
they made me grow food.
Have I ever come home? 

2021: Broken news

If Satin bowerbird moves here, his choice of blue is limited,
think I while clicking on blue trash: a plastic bag, oil bottle, mask.
Birds watch and learn. A week passes. Breaking news is broken plastic. 

See all.

This day in my blogging history

• 

  2014: Happy Big Night, folks!

• 

  2016: When I still attempted to be friends with b&w

• 

  2017: Thursday Doors from Ljubljana, including now famous “Submarine Door”.

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