after Monica Youn

not much different from mister     she carries an egg     she is French in her stench

     with thin brioche-legs     gold strolling smears     of Grey Poupon and well-to-do

at night an accordion     follows her into a roux     “but, I’m more than a sandwich!”

      objects mademoiselle     still her lovers insist     on her dolled up in béchamel

sure, she’s got frills     wears tulle filthy as swine     not a perfume in the world

      to guise the reek of brine     dirty little miss with a soul     glued together with fromage

her boss sniffs out her stink     pays her an unwanted massage     “you were asking for it”

      his grounds for a grope     she spends Sunday in bed     buried in bars of soap

“daddy issues are delicious”      dead-eyed on the parquet     on empty park benches

      cracking up like crème brûlée     thought tales end lighthearted?      a godmother’s toast?

she darkens into a midnight snack     all wants had been poached     her body was foodporn

      poor madame croque     swallowed piece by piece     when she had been hungry