You always serve me good food with your bad news,
and my mouth hangs open:
Food unchewed, Fork splayed to the side,
Cold prongs missing the plate,
Undigested thoughts like frozen peas
in a hot stew.
At least wait ‘til I’m done eating,
‘til the sweet savor of fresh herbs
has had a chance to dissolve on my tongue
in wordless wonder.
Digesting it together would have been better.
January 10, 2016
hinarising 