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Hot Tamale

If food be the food of love, love on
My fantastic ideal would be
To be your Mexican housepoetess:
Aztec princess, ceremonial heart-swiper,
Gymnastically bilingual just as I am bisexual,
A hot tamale in bedazzled headgear, pink plumage,
Bronzed arms stained with the sex juice of my victims: see them laid
Out upon the stairway to my bedroom at each dawn of another exhaustless day.

Ay, caramba! But reality ‘tis, I’m much more your cold tomato,
Cold damp and dulling, greened with inexperience
Or it could be some sort of rot’s set in?
Nothing venereal. I’ve been tested
And certainly it’s not gangrene,
Because surely if it were
I’d just be dead.

I haven’t fed today. Would you like
Some chicken enchiladas? I could go for that.
With the fresh tomato slices on top. I know a place.
I don’t mind being a slice of tomato. It goes good
In a sandwich. And I do like sandwiches.
I’m not so flexible, but I can flop into place,
Just whatever you order. But today, an enchilada, por favor.

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