Edible art.
Like I chomp on a portrait
I chew the mustard yellow
And combine it with vibrant green
Mixed with speckled spiced sauce.

The sculpture…different textures
The mind’s power seeps into
A basic physiological need.
Hunger
To fill the hole
On the conveyer belt of the generic factory
Which produces survival.

I slouch in my chair
At the table-clothed-table,
Waiting for my dinner with much hope
And expectations, I will finally get the long awaited dinner.
Finally

My friends chattered earlier
About their satisfying dinners the night before.
The filling substances
The pride they felt in eating the home-cooked meal
Off of the ciramic plate.
Laughing and joking with their family.

And I radiate green rays of envy
Like the mean sun, shooting ultraviolet rays
From its loaded gun.

But now,
I am a baby who stopped sobbing and kicking her legs
Due to the passifier making its way towards my mouth.

Unable to control my excitement and nerves,
Kicking my heart like a stuck door blocking the way of a hostage.

It is my turn
To eat a beautifully prepared meal
That won’t leave me hanging by a tendon.
By a weak hand
By a vein that is vital for my blood flow.

I can feel my face flushing
As the mean who partly created me, brings the traditionally patterned
Trays and bowls
Covered by a silver protector,
In order to preserve the treasure.

What a dad I have
He worked so hard in the steaming kitchen
To please me, his daughter,
I think to myself.
Finally
Finally I can feel what they feel.
The hole will be filled after 50 days in nights of hunger
In the desert

CLANK
The different sounds of the plates and silverware
Are placed in front of me.

Bon Appettite
Finally
FINALLY

He sits across from me,
Smiling a warm-hearted smile.
The affection drips out of his eyes like tears,
With a pinch of something else,
That I can’t really identify.
But there is something else.

My teeny soft hands tremble
As I lift the warm shiny cover

The bold yellow rice still sizzling
Blends perfectly with the peach colored shrimp
And the grey dull clams.
Along with the lively red peppers
And the washed-out green peas.
The fresh juicy lemons get squeezed
As I stir my concrete
That will finally fill my hole.
Finally.

I scoop it into my mouth
And my body quickly reppels the treasure
Like a deathly disease to a fighting immune system.

The taste of let-downs
Scratch my throat with the rutheless claws .

I taste despair and bubbling anger.
I taste loneliness and uslessness.

What is this?
I eat more, trying to get past the flavor,
But the pungent rejection
Fills my mouth.
The once concealed sorrow and pain
Have now made their way to my hole …
The hole I need filled

It doesn’t go away.

I look up to search for answers from the chef.
“TAKE THIS BACK TO THE KITCHEN!”

He just stares at me smiling, just smiling.
And now I see what I couldn’t see before.
Flakiness binded with falsehood
In a terrible spiral
It warps the chef's face,
his blank smile

I lift my hands to push this mistaken art away
but my hands are glued.
My head jerks down to find a piercing white straight jacket
and my eyes tunnel into pure confusion.
A busy, dizzy, fearful tunnel.

I raise my head once again
and the ceramic traditional plates
have transformed into grey plastic boards
accompanied by old dirty silverware.
The walls are now sanatized neutral blocks
and the cook is wearing blank white scrubs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice condescending name tag
Doctor Valdiviejas

Staring into his eyes, hoping to be awoken
from this Alice and Wonderland sinkhole.

But all I gaze into is a cold rock
that stands sturdy on the shore of a rough sea.

So I eat, because it is all I can do
just waiting for the taste to dissolve
and for the meal of bitterness to morph into bland liquid
so I could no longer taste the murdurous
cullinary art.

Finally
was too much to ask for, I realize
and my generic grey factory of survival
will just have to fill the hole itself.