We are not used to
thinking food has a past.

Of its picaresque travels -

its days of being manhandled,

its nights spent snuggling
across borders in a burlap sack -

we prefer not to know.

All we ask
when we are hungry
is that it appear,

miraculous as a breast
descending upon us
from a floral sky.
How it came to be there,

hovering like a word
above our lips,

is none of our concern.