by Marilyn Annucci
are so much better than little bits, little chewed off
pieces of foods one might leave for a bird or a woman
without a home. Not whole, as in lacking parts: broccoli
without heads, potatoes missing eyes. Maimed foods.
Pork chops on their last legs. Tomatoes with their skins
blown off. Bread crumbs. The whole crumby world out
there, not in here. Whole, as in what more could you ask
for: bright organic peppers in the jet of the spritzer. Crisp
stalks of celery, fennel, white asparagus. Complete, as in
all of us together, smiling, restored, fully realized as we reach
for that tiramisu. Rich, as in not poor, not stuck with radiated
beef, milk, mutated chickens, as in not free, not free-range at all.
-published as “The [Failed] Ghost Copy Writer: Whole Foods” in The American Poetry Journal (Number 8, 2008)