Salad Burial

I made it on a Saturday
with romaine and green leaf lettuce
stems crisp and firm
fresh-boiled eggs in slices
the rose-white flesh of radishes
mushrooms cut kidney-style
spinach with that suede feel
and chicken strips grilled with garlic.

If only it was eaten at the party
or I hadn’t dumbly added dressing
I wouldn’t be standing here a week later
before the bright throat of the refrigerator
afraid to open the blue ironware pot
where Hansel and Gretel are lost
in the furry forest of the fungal underworld
and meat and greens are married
in the shadow of old Miss Havisham’s
spider-riddled wedding cake.

Holding my nose, blindly I bag
the mutant gallimaufry
and drop it in the trash, but as I do
I wonder what alien stews
must be composting in my neighbors’ cans.
See how the imagination festers?

About the author

C.E. Chaffin lived in Mexico for three years before moving to the redwood coast of California where he was joined by the ocean, two…

Read the full bio

Issue 03 · February 2009

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