
Bacchus Comes to the Table
His senses are first nudged
by the rising aroma
from the entree snapper,
grilled to gold with salt and butter
then the astringent burst
of cut lemon, nothing other
added, before the knife parts.
The fork gathers up the first offer
toward his mouth and the fish
looks so good he won’t linger
before another forkful will come
to his lips – but oops, feels his error
for the tongue encounters small
sharp bones within the texture.
He won’t swallow yet. Replaces
knife and fork for thumb and forefinger.
And his palette, as never before,
is being pushed, way further,
as tongue, lips, the whole cave
of his mouth now hover
in an art of taste and sort – the mouth
becoming so sensitive it’s closer
to pain. Fish slow on the tongue.
Lick fish-juice from fingers. Is it vulgar
when finished to only be able
to murmur, ah! And again, ah!
With every sense focused, aquiver,
for the next course he’ll encounter.
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