Something is stuck in my craw: your favourite dish.
My love, I wish you’d withdraw your favourite dish.
Channels of blood run the deck; blades sever the flesh.
Look how skillfully they saw your favourite dish.
Butchered torpedoes, their fins are pushed overboard
like barrels of blanks; it’s gore, your favourite dish.
A tail, a predator, an apex of the tongue;
a cook, a waiter to pour your favourite dish.
You long to sink in bed with me, your well-fed bride.
Your breath is sharp; I abhor your favourite dish.
Silent, we drift over long-lines dripping with hooks
like mercury drops. I chaw your favourite dish.
A camera rolls at sea. I dream of redress.
I am not hungry, ignore your favourite dish.
Our bitter palace sails over poisoned mareel.
‘Lee–’ you beg for a bowl for your favourite dish.
(First published in The Ghazal Page, Issue 59, 2016.)