Roy Herndon Smith

The question is what
words make on the chopping block
of still nothingness,

stir-fry of sliced-up, tossed-in-
a-wok jumbles of

mumbles and clear-cuts;
the forests gone to deserts,
butterflies fall like

leaves crumbling to dust;
to dust the dish with a dash
of coriander,

cumin, turmeric,
and a bit of cayenne; when
the jolt of joy hits,

suffering tumbles
after; we are what we eat,
we are what we speak.