I rise from a corpse of poultry. Cold steel flays the fat off of me. Yellow yoke bathes me, before immersion in flour and breadcrumbs completes me.
I first face the fire in a vat of boiling oil. Every impurity scourged from me, my texture a golden brown, warm marinara sauce pours upon me. The mozzorella cheese then placed upon my back, I return to the fires.
All to grace the plate laid on an outbound stainless steel shelf. Where a server will swipe me toward the world beyond the kitchen of my birth.
To fulfill my destiny as your chosen meal.
clanking glasses
pouring out another
bottle of red
Sanaa host Tuesday Poetics today over at dVerse. We’re writing about food, with a focus on at least one sense. I had to encore this previously published haibun for the occasion!
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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