ode to picnic and pantry (apologies to pablo neruda)

and it was at that age...picnic and pantry arrived

in search of me. i don't know, i don't know where

it came from, from kitchen or a restaurant.

i don't know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, nor silence,

but from a tavern i was summoned,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among violent fires

or returning alone,

there i was without a meal

and it fed me.

i did not know what to say, my mouth

had no way

with names

my eyes were blind,

and something started in my stomach,

thirst or forgotten hunger pangs,

and i made my own way,

deciphering

that menu

and i tasted the first flavorful bite,

flavorful, full of substance, no

nonsense,

pure wisdom

of someone who knows everything,

and suddenly i saw

the breads

blue oven

and earthy,

salads,

palpitating plantains,

kale perforated,

riddled

with braggs, garlic and ginger,

the winding rice noodles, the roasted vegetables.

and i, infinitesimal being,

drunk with the great gastrointestinal

void,

likeness, image of

bounty,

i felt myself a pure part

of the gastronomy,

i wheeled with the jeni's,

my gut broke free on the open table.