artichoke

* artichoke *
I simmer you slowly in shallow water with dried salt from France. Cool you to the temperature of the room. Pour balsamic and olive oil in a glass blown dipping cup. With one smooth move I use my teeth to pull off the meat from your skin. Your choking hairs do not perturb me; with a delicate push of my index finger, I follow your hairline removing armour from heart. (The hairs I keep balled in my right hand, the holding tank.) Handling is subtle yet well defined; I take my time. Your stem and core are tender and sweet they are the last that my tongue meets. I gather your chewed leaves with the hair in my palm and throw them out the door onto the natural compost floor. In time your pieces will disintegrate and give pleasure to the worms and the cool dark earth.







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