O, I just want to rub you and your succulent herbaceous oils
across my face and inhale your aromas;
Leave your juices in the fragrant moisture sopped plastic
bag till they congeal into pudding and I can eat this delectable mixture with a
spoon;
Tear away the barbecue char of your luxuriantly tender skin
and rend it gently ‘tween my teeth, nibbling with soft lips from breast to wing
tip to leg and back;
Inelegantly use my fingers to massage your flesh free of the
rigid, impeccable structure of your cream white bones, and see steam waft from
these crevasses: little clouds of piquant promise in which I wrap myself and
dream …
I see you there, glistening under humming fluorescent heat
lamps, tucked safely in your clear packaging, basking seductively in your
natural cooking liquids.
I see the enticing sodden mass of spiced bread crumbs
spilling carelessly from your rear, as if taking a sneaky look at the world – at
me – and saying, ‘oh, hey there …
Hungry?’
Yes. Yes, always for you, yes, wedged just so into supple white bread
rolls like velvet pillows,
smeared with alluring waves of kewpie mayonnaise,
layered with crinkled fresh lettuce spotted with dew,
made resplendent with a slice of tomato as passionate as its
fire red hue,
and a hint of salt and pepper, always together.
The bite, then, coveting, yet fierce; loving, yet firm; caring, yet just a little bit rough.
Unquestioning.
Forever watching, endearing, craving, wanting.
O, as lustful as a performance of courtship in the dark, though more beautifully messy.
Your colouring today, it is unusually dark: a rippled deep golden
dessert ochre.
You, brave bird, must have dared fly too close to the heat
in your near endless turning, but I appreciate your sacrifice:
the extra texture, the knuckles of crusty muscle coating
your joints, the pockets of crunch disguising the dainty meat below.
O, from under the halo of warmth alighted upon your
furrowed, rounded breasts meeting in perfect symmetry, do I hear you cry for
me?
Do I hear the echoes of motors slowly rotating, consummately
cooking, which led you to me? The mysterious ingredients and additives?
The very precision of your existence?
Yes, my friend, the rotisseries chicken. I do. I always hear
you.
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