SPAM.

By Rebecca L. Morrison

If I could carve my mind from

the skull like an avocado pit, slice it with

serrated cutlery

like crusty bread you'd dip in extra-virgin olive oil

and fresh, fragrant herbs,

employ a cutting board, some paper towels

and a thick Merriam-Webster

to sap the moisture

like I do with slabs of tofu,

extra-firm,

cube it with wire or fishing line

and marinade it

in Mom's homemade basil pesto

'til it's mmm savory, tasty,

and feed it to a hungry industrial meat-grinder

by the pregnant handful,

and if Bobby Flay could

pat it to perfect patties

and lull it to sleep over lit mesquite,

then yes, I'd have a shining prize

to read aloud tonight.