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