Tonight's Poet Corner: Yolk
Yolk by Belinda Roddie Whisking a bleeding eye and letting the cream soak in, dipping hot oil into hot oil into hot oil, seeping in the corners of tear ducts leaking harsh, white fluids. They let the stuff gel in a cylindrical appreciation of the culinary art of cold cadavers, plucking bones from frosty glass, simmering souls in carbon steel. When it cools, they serve it like a pageant for the altar, a fattened calf, a sleekened sheep, a bloated ball of blubber for the undertaking. Not to eat, just to look at, and admire, and let grow lukewarm until it's dead. Mom, I don't like what they made for the bake sale. The cupcakes are stale and the frosting turns to dust particles in my all too eager mouth. When I lick away blue icing, it turns gray and petrifies on the tongue. The cookies are dry and the lemonade drier. They always offer broken crackers and cheese. Sometimes doughnuts and cold coffee. The tea's not much better. The hot cocoa's ninety p...