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--- A L E X   J O S E P H

Which I hate! I sense, in them, the betrayal Of something sacred and buttery. Never one to Accept the carrot without the stick, she always Said to me, "Leave the asparagus Unpearled!" (whatever THAT meant). We couldn't Make sense of it in the cold kitchen Under those cumbersome lights. It was all too Present, too risible, too makeshift, a plane Without the i's dotted. Then it was eggs. Of course! Eggs. Who can forget them, sloppy With mayonnaise, with radish and mustard? Without tomatoes, we grew lonely. With grapes, we were afraid. Say not the desecration, "sandwich," or we'll flee Like a coven of roaches. We'll hide. Pickles are slothful, and indignant. They Hate being the sideshow. And in the drawer Beside the gas stove Is the old matchbook, the stone dry matches Quivering, in their attenuated rows.

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