Wednesday

Oops, it's already Wednesday.  Time for another terrifying poem about food.  This one will do.

Martinique Blood Sausage Spree

Steely electric guitar flitters
to the taped rhythm track,
the black man with the blue Strat,
off a Rive Gauche alley,
spewing happy 
singing.
 
The waiter slides around,
points a finger
above my ear, then
into his chest.
 
“I am egg gal. I am.”

French with a German accent, I think
he means the painting’s signature:
M. Hegel.

I nod and smile,
he nods to the guitar player
who nods to the cook as 2 tables 
nod a lot, dance out the door
and leave me alone in Cafe Martinique.
 
I order from the page marked
Wondrous Gifts of the Sea
in bad pointing French.
 
Red wine goes quickly with
the tangy squid stuffed
with different squid, bananas,
fiery yellow peppers, cinnamon.

The guitar player turns up the echo.  
Wine and squid drift away. 
 
Hegel brings more wine and a plate
of deep red sausages. Wondrous 
gift of the sea? I ask and all three
nod yes, to each other, to the music,
to the sausages.  

The painting looks down on me:
 green fatigued,
 a black soldier
 blue spume anchored,
 arms skyward
 clutches a bayonetted lobster
 wriggling on gunpoint 
 and ashen white goat slung
 around his neck

 M A R T I N I Q U E

 in black sparrows, contorted, 
 twisted wings into letters.
 
Heavy knife dull pulls
tears the skin
and a reddish brown
pushes out, oozing, intact.

In my mouth: hot spicy nutmeg pepper.
On the wall: lobster soldier leer smolders.
On my tongue: aroma soft rising round
  viscid roe salivary urging
  fermenting goat 
  blood glowing.
 
Over my shoulder, smiling
black and white, restaurant
staff bouncing to the
echoey blue guitar.