Five

Recipe for…?

A misshaped globe
pale-skinned and pock-marked

tendril roots clinging
as earth tumbles out –

remnant of a former sphere
birth place, nest.

Sharp knife peels to the flesh,
cubes with ease the white heart.

Hand tosses heart to hot metal
to onion sweated down –

a carpet for the fallen
in the cauldron of stock.

Notes of sour apple and thyme
herald the readiness of lunch.

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