I am a man who eats women.
I like them boiled, I like them baked.
I like them dead on my plate.
I notice there is no supper.
There is no steam, there is no scent.
My damned mistress, my maid,
Why have you not stuffed yourself?
I cannot place you in the broiler,
I cannot baste your breasts with butter.
Besides, the oven isn’t heating up.
The measuring cup has no bottom.
The onions fall on the floor.
They roll around the prep table leg,
But I can’t stop salivating
Long enough to chop them.
After I rub you with oil I watch
The sky with its false earthenware lid.
Ah, the trees look like wooden spoons
Grasped by a green giant’s hand.
You say you might be pregnant again.
This calls for a dusting of flour!