Pata negra

Jamón!

A golden leaf
wrought to purchase
a thousand head of sow,
brought forth to us on the steadied hands of servant maids,
shines in the light
streaming through our crystal glasses and
trills with brittle composite, entices insecure appetites.

But as the painted mouths purse and plane their vowels,
I cannot stand it. The game is out.
I push my plate and silken napkin,
then spit that leaf upon the marbled floor.
I leave the place, my status hanging like a vacuum cleaner bag,
having sucked all that is foul and irksome.

It is for my blasphemous blackened leg I pine!
I pray to be delivered something pure and cured and shaven,
with flaky, soft, sublime persuasion.
To tear (after the moor has squealed his last)
a page from a salty hide;
I’d let it fall silken into my mouth, fuse with my being…

Nothing would separate me from this wonderful thing.

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