The Dissection
I stick my fork into my plate like a Viking,
Skewering my enemy with a surging hunger.
The meatball of my stuffat tal-fenek looks up at me, wounded and bleeding.
Begging for its life, it uses the last of its strength to try to sway me in the direction of pastizzi.
The curried pea encased in flaky pastry,
A gourmand womb of sorts.
I shall not be distracted,
And I swallow the meatball whole.
I pick up the flaky womb and I tear it in half.
The insides are yellow, but the warmth calls for my full attention.
There is no umbilical cord, leaving ease of access to its enemies.
They find me with my hands greasy from the placenta of the thing.
It’s a dissection of origin.