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Friday, November 6, 2020

Self Portrait With Baby Octopus

It lies in a porcelain bowl,
Steeped in its own juices
A blue eyed blob, collapsed
Its tentacles hang limply over the sides
It is a festive offering, a feast

It is coffined in the deadly air,
Plucked from its ocean playground
Its limbs like Medusa's hair

In this country, it is a delicacy
Offered to special guests.
My hosts are watching
My throat begins to gag

It lies in a porcelain bowl,
Steeped in its own juices
A blue eyed blob, collapsed

I feign a smile, take up my spoon
And drink the watery fluid
That embalms the proffered corpse

Then, hazarding offence,
Bowing, I quietly leave the room
Sheena Blackhall
Topic(s) of this poem: food
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