The salmon's cooked, and smells like lemons -- fresh
Withdrawn from asymmetric ovens, this
Pink discourse flakes in chunks, its nuanced flesh
Adopting foreign flavors. I don't miss
Its meat, and eat pre-Adam meals, before
God preordained it: you'll partake in all
Of this; dine in my image, seventh whore
Of a second Eve, and enjoy your fall
From Eden -- here, your nails receded from
Your skin; here, you work; here, the dead sustain
The dead, consuming, as a rule of thumb,
An ark-array of dinners, 'til the rain
Makes us recycle. Two by two, we'll climb
Aboard the boat and eat our meals on time.
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