On a silver tray,
An angel made from frilly winter kale
And garlic.
My halo is a frozen shallot
Gone limp from all the jostling
And the languid temperature of the room.
And just as all my components pull
Away from the toothpick underpin,
A brilliant gleam admires my raisin eyes.
The light bent from the snow outside
And off a diamond earring
Stuck to the oily jaw of a feaster here.
And though every furbelow dreams
Of being consumed,
This wasn't what I had in mind.
But I guess beggars can't be choosers.
-jenn
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