in the restaurant i heard my food talking to me by sian s. rathore

In the restaurant I heard my food talking to me.
the woman sitting behind me had orange hair and her blouse was the same colour as
the third stripe on the carpet pattern

he pulled a flower from the centrepiece and gave it to me he said to make me feel special
he poured both my wine and his which made me feel special
he stabbed his broccoli with his fork

gently.
lovingly.

I tried to return the favour by pulling the
accidental fish bones from my mouth in
the most encouraging way I could
I thought about swapping my bones with his
I imagined he would look deflated whereas I
would be covered in compound fractures
I thought about asking him if he would swap his bones for mine
he thought about asking me if he could borrow my blood

I looked at the food and asked it if it would rather eat me
it didn’t reply
I looked again and asked it if it would like to see me pan-fried
it didn’t reply
I looked this time and asked it if it would prefer I were a vegan
It barely flinched

In the restaurant I heard my seabass talking to me
and it said: next time you cross the road don’t bother looking.
 
 
Sian S. Rathore is a writer living in England studying English and getting bored as heck of all the ridiculous poetry over there. She’s 22 years old, female, and into flarf, conceptualism, and french cheeses. She’s a poetry critic featured in Stride and Cake, and was recently published in an anthology called Bad Language – The Birthday Issue.