They mean

the geography of the plate,

the cliffs of sweet corn,

the quaint gravy creeks, their

potato plateaus, meaty fields

in all their autumnal

splendor.

 

They praise

the invention of cloth streets,

the sacred space between

the glass tower, with its ice

elevators, and the big white

hand that reaches

for it.

 

They salute

the solitude of the knife

without the beef, the spoon rising

between the plate and the tongue,

the fork whose prongs pierce

the raw or cooked, the ordinary

omelet or exotic

sushi.

 

They eulogize the world of the table!  Its

wounded pride when no one sits

down for dinner except

the giant baby, whose quick soft swallows

avow the absence of birds,

except for the one

roasting in the oven.

 

It’s here

the napkin serves

the lips so well, wipes off

the foolish leftovers, the fingertips

that later touch so tenderly

the beloved’s huge face.

 

Here food

believes in what it is doing.

It concentrates on dishware until

something else accrues to it, something

larger that seems to come from

outside, and the ghost of a mouth

decides it’s hungry, and grows

wide as appetite’s

myths and legends.