Poem: Edible Baby

two flat hands held open over a black expanse,

like a pedestal or a baby changing station perch,

with an infant on it and a simple message above,

it says Don’t Panic,

bring a safe baby to any police station hospital or library,

the sky full of letters saying they’ll ask no questions,

cannibal dogmen jump and pant at the concept,

rubbing their hands,

 

get a uniform and an I.D. badge, speak hard,

“hand the baby, I’ll put it where it should be,”

desperate daddies handing over sweetmeats,

I will never eat an infant, I want to make that clear

 

I won’t, but if I did, how would it taste?

like veal, one would think, right?

jerked jamaican spice blend or wet rub

pineapple, papaya, exotic flavors,

 

we’d have a party with grass skirts and flower necklaces,

Then we’d feed them their dinner, “some kind of bird?”

“no,” is all I’ll say,

“please tell us, we are ever so curious,” with hands folded,

and I’d tell them grinning with an air of impish respite,

“infants are egg yolks.”

 

“horrors, horrors,” they’d all say, tee-heeing,

because everyone knows its a joke really,

I would never eat an infant, not for curiosity,

not for flavor either, I’m pretty sure, I think.

Poem: Edible Baby

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