To the Man Who Shouted “I Like Pork Fried Rice” at Me on the Street
you want to eat me
out. right. what does it taste like
you want to eat me right out
of these jeans & into something
a little cheaper. more digestible.
more bite-sized. more thank you
come: i am greasy
for you. i slick my hair with msg
every morning. i’m bad for you.
got some red-light district between
your teeth. what does it
taste like: a takeout box
between my legs.
plastic bag lady. flimsy white fork
to snap in half. dispose of me.
taste like dried squid. lips puffy
with salt. lips brimming
with foreign so call me
pork. curly-tailed obscenity
been playing in the mud. dirty meat.
worms in your stomach. give you
a fever. dead meat. butchered girl
chopped up & cradled
in styrofoam. you candid cannibal.
you want me bite-sized
no eyes clogging your throat.
but i’ve been watching
from the slaughterhouse. ever since
you named me edible. tossed in
a cookie at the end. lucky man.
go & take what’s yours.
name yourself archaeologist but
to the squelches in
your teeth & hear my sow squeal
scream murder between
molars. watch salt awaken
watch me kick
back to life. watch me tentacles
& teeth. watch me
what does it
taste like: revenge
squirming alive in your mouth
strangling you quiet
from the inside out.
This poem originally appeared in Poetry Magazine, March 2014 and appears here with permission from the author.