She can't help but play with her food.
Twisting her zoodles around her fork,
then taking them on a stroll
through the thick red tomato sauce.
Her plate screams of earthly pleasures,
but don't be fooled,
her power –
as well as her plates power,
comes from the earth, itself.
As the stroll through sauce and spices continues,
a single drop of blood like sauce
spills over the east edge of her plate,
falling to the desert floor
to water the growth of a single rose.
The way poison penetrates royalty:
unexpected and straight to the heart.
But the rose does not become wary,
because it knows
beneath its soft,
it holds a gun in his hand.
Waiting to prick
the sorry soul
who uncaringly plucks
it's pithy petals.
One might assume
that this rose is relentless,
but don't be naïve.
I've seen a single tear
drip down it's scintillating stem,
much like the single drop of sweat
that leisurely salts the sternum
of the woman holding the fork.
Continuing between her breasts,
falling with the amplitude of a pinball
in an arcade.
Only to be stanched by her navel,
acting as a moat
that surrounds her castle like counterparts.
This reservoir of life
is defined by her lean,
Her body radiates energy
as her mind stays hungry,
and her fingers caress the golden fork.
Twisting up another bite of zoodles
painted with increasingly monotonic,