I’ve done this ode many times before. I was weaned on this ode where appetite is for the appetizer and salsa is the blood and guts that feeds the baby. The spherical planet of the tomato, reflecting sun on its skin, cuts and bleeds a thick calming juice. Smell is the trigger and the buds begin to register the cool, salt taste before a single drop rides the tongue. The idiom of heat—a sliced green chile or dark jalapeňo, the shape of dripping light, the second planet of onion, severe and raw like a crux, joins its sister pieces of earthy garlic. The chopped pico de gallo is bright and primary— through fusion, a picante smooth and criminal, blood red with white seeds which will burn. A small vessel of penance and grace.
Napowrimo 2017: Write a poem poem that explores your sense of taste.