The Big Man tries my ass and thighs.
“Wait,” I cry, “don’t you see the alternatives,
my elephantine friend who knows no palates,
denounces downward sitting dog! Eat her!
The taste of fermenting lipids inside
flapping arms is sweet and smooth
like the cream of an Oreo cookie;
she will cluck and simmer, make-like preserves,
help you through the winter—
we are all suffering from seasonal depression disorder
you know!”
I have known this abundant ripeness
and will marinade the others in time, but
it is you we want for you have thought too loud.
Bend over.