The Green Pepper
Mostly hollow,
save an easily-shaved, white frame
and a multitude of moist seed pods
that I must rip clean
before dismemberment can begin.
And it’s these seeds,
these clingy, springy seeds,
that taunt me, momentarily caught in the black star
that protects my delicate, sensitive eyes
from the garbage disposal’s gnashing terror.
The seeds, those seeds
beg, plead for me to abort
my infanticidal intentions to
drown, grind, and wash
clean away their pulpy remains.
I understand their fear
yet a question remains on my lips
before I open the tap and flip the switch,
“Do you want to go before
or after I finish with your mother?”