The Hungry Sonnet;
Or, “If John Donne’s Problem was Gluttony, not Lechery”;
Or, “The Safe Word is ‘Moist’”
Batter my heart, three-person’d God;
And set the burner to medium, medium-high,
For you as yet but boil, bake, and sauté; not fry!
That I may be eaten, tenderize me, God,
With your mallet—of love.
(Before you batter me, of course: I’d hate for you to make a mess all over your divine kitchen, O Lord, O big, strong, manly Lord with rippling…anyway…)
O, plunge me deep into your good stuff, your boiling oil—of love;
But once you have cooked me all the way,
Leave me not to burn and die—
Into new skillet, complete with top,
O heavenly chef, there let me plop;
And smother in God’s other good stuff, God’s gravy generously applied.
Yet, even still, I’m not fit food for thee.