In The Grill Room Poem by April Michelle Wolverton

We, the soft bodies,
are made to rotate upon the stick-
to brown evenly,
until each angle,
fries crisp and neat.

But lethargy ingests,
with considerable quickness-
impishly dipping the bowl.

O, Cannibal,
you fully Ex-pand,
slurping cruelly from the breast-
you, the weightless beast,
bending, conforming with the heat.

I adhere to you, articulate,

only to gargle the strange meats
that are now
freely offered to me.

But with chops blotted,
I, the peckish one, am served cold-

refusing to warm the plate.