after Sue Owen
Born from flour anointed with oil,
from a roux dark and mean as a horses breath,
you remind me of some strange, mystical stew
spawned from a muddy version of Macbeth.
Only someones replaced the spells with spices,
the witches with a Cajun chef.
Maybe youre a recipe torn from Satans Cookbook,
a kind of dumb-downed devils brew
where evil stirs its wicked spoon
in a swampy sacrificial hue.
Maybe God damned the okra that thickens
your soup, the muddy bones that haunt your stew.
Maybe this is why, when we smell the cayenne,
were struck dumb as a moth.
Maybe this is why everything that crawls or flies
seems to find its way into your swampy broth.
