Magic Carpet Ride
Farrah Sarafa

Waving her torso back and forth like a thirsty cat,
the flavors roll along the carpet of her tongue
  like a roller coaster in love.

Marjorum fries in the olive oil, as he chops the onions.
“Pass the beets greens,” she says—knife in her hand.
Slicing, tearing, the greens are decent,

warm and ready to perspire m-i-n-e-r-a-l-s into a pot of steam.
The beet wedges release fragrance.
  Bodies toast in their magenta sweats.
  No neutral can counteract their dyeing colors.

Flavored sewn by the staccato of small black sesame seeds
screaming in the infernal intestines of Lucifer
they scream, heresy.

Beets make juice and greens make green,
“Salut! To love, to friendship, to spring!” We drink casual wine
  whose tears are moved to excellence by the blood thickening beet.

Flying on her magic collard-carpet ride
she dances like Beatrice on the tip of my tongue.
She dyes my lips purple
   and causes me to sing a silent song of love
 called “Thank you.”