One is plump, tetrahedrally tumid,
crispy flesh the texture of ostrich
and the color of Bo Derek.
Other somosas are greasy and limp,
like something flung in a scullery.
Broken; chicken peas of genius
infuse the olfactory cathedral
and swell like cavern rumors.
After the rapture the plate is immaculate;
the one gone like original sin,
like never was, like the dream at dawn.
The other is green, chunky, and sloppy.
The lamb of good does not hide or create
beauty in gristle and bone.
It is mild and pure, soft and sultry,
wallowing in palak
with protein essence
to assimilate as sacrament.
The spinach, garlic, ginger, and meat
permeates and assimilates the mouth;
unimaginable, like the first life
that bloomed in Panthalassa.
J.S. MacLean lives in Calgary, Canada. He has had poetry published in a variety of publications in Canada, the USA, the UK, and Australia. His first collection, “Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices” is available on amazon.com. In his spare time he works.