Lemon Pepper

The spin of the wrist, a yank of the forearm
Then sleek bony ligaments reach out
Wrinkled flesh twists and flexes through the contents of a dilapidated wooden cupboard.

A thin flowing smock of coral, teal, and ivory
Waves and flows around her like a watery shroud.
And yet, teeth grind, jaws clench, and guttural grunting emits

Below naked in a ceramic dish lies a defatted slab of poultry.
Its flabby pinkness dusted with salt, basted in oil
And it feels nothing as it waits for the fiery furnace

But the delay, the waiting, not for execution
For that has come and passed weeks ago

For the last addition to its funeral cloak, buried in herbs, spice, salt and…
But wait!
Where is it?
Where is the final dressing? The piece de resistance!
To fabricate this flavorful charring.

A concoction of aged lemon peel
Stale black pepper and iodized salt
Prepared in a Baltimore processing plant
Years ago…

Still, the woman’s fingers reach for it,
Sliding jar after jar of dry decimated herbs
Tinctures, vinegar, condiments, and oil
Spin about like the teacup ride at Disneyland

Then LO! She discovers the container, twists it open, and looks down,
The corners of her mouth droop, her head rises, and she stares at me in disgust-
Much how my face looks when it tastes-

Lemon pepper