The Sunday market manifests an erudite philosophy.
All that may be done shall be done unto your titbits.
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They shall be toasted wickedly, marinated, roasted.
Bacchanalian bits of things shall be peeled and pickled,
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Battered, steamed or fried; garnished, peppered, grated.
The texture is to be considered just as much as taste,
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Crispy, gooey, hard, releasing tart blends of smell,
Not a part from nose to tail shall ever go to waste.
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And you can but admire how deftly she is dumpling
The pork ball with sesame, trickling fish-oil over the shoal
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Of desiccated minnows while drizzling the crickets.
Delicious, unless not. Western taste-buds are easily
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Shocked – or something gets caught in the back of the throat
And you fear that it may be your tonsils you’re swallowing
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Rather than the intimate glands of some Himalayan goat.
Best of all are the dead man’s fingers, the crocodile tear shallots.
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Let the market ransack your imagination, turning
Your stomach into your very own haggis.
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Hope that the demon’s whiskers do not bring you out in spots.
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