Judy Turek


Your glossy surface entices me
to take a shine to your aubergine skin
which reflects my admiration
of your tone and texture
so sleek so svelte, so firm cradled in the palm  

of an Italian hand that
cannot peel you cannot slice you, fry you, smother you
in marinara and mozzarella, though
rumor has it that you pair so well
with penne and rigatoni.  

You sit confident on your round buttocks
your stem hat regal as an Easter bonnet curves
in a smile of satisfaction because you know
I won’t be stacking your nightshade flesh
into a casserole dish  

not about to bake you naked of skin
shaded royal, shed by the razor edge
of self-satiating hunger. I refuse to ignore
your beauty, your stately silhouette
your inherent sense of queendom
                so like my own.

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