Aluminum Ode

You hold everything,

number 11

on the periodic table,

hasty morning sammies

and riceballs.

You are the middle school crunch

of a finished meal,

a finalness wrapped around

tomorrow’s plate.

You get crushed

by some weight, too,

by the slightest cramp

in a schoolbag and cheese

oozes into the lining.

 

You are not foiled

but found in a spooling heat

retaining today’s meats

in the drawer recess.

You don’t know

tomorrow’s meal

but today you cradled morsels

from Huancayo and maybe

baklava from the desert.

 

But maybe

that’s astral travel

and we never left

the dinner table.

You paper

with mettle,

spreading black sugar

into a bread-like brain.

 

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