after Sue Owen <br /> <br />Born from flour anointed with oil, <br />from a roux dark and mean as a horse’s breath, <br />you remind me of some strange, mystical stew <br />spawned from a muddy version of Macbeth. <br />Only someone’s replaced the spells with spices, <br />the witches with a Cajun chef. <br /> <br />Maybe you’re a recipe torn from Satan’s Cookbook, <br />a kind of dumb-downed devil’s brew <br />where evil stirs its wicked spoon <br />in a swampy sacrificial hue. <br />Maybe God damned the okra that thickens <br />your soup, the muddy bones that haunt your stew. <br /> <br />Maybe this is why, when we smell the cayenne, <br />we’re struck dumb as a moth. <br />Maybe this is why everything that crawls or flies <br />seems to find its way into your swampy broth.<br /><br />Chris Tusa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-gumbo/
