Edible Flowers

Edible Flowers

There are flowers you can eat.
I would have one on my plate right now.

Their taste is most delicious.
In truth, a little fishy, and while I know it may sound strange,
like cat piss, skunk, in marijuana strains,
the taste is quite outstanding:
always metallic, somewhat tangy, bitter yes, but also sweet.
Once you’ve had such special taste sensation,
in the future simply nothing else will do.

Not only taste, but texture too,
that perfect blend of firm and tender,
surrenders oh so slightly when I bite it gently,
through the petals, through their stem.

Of course, the petals join together. In the middle, most delicious center
is a secret, tiny button, yes, the bud, she’s so delicious.
She’s the prize that must be savored, yes, a flavor so intense!
Let her linger on your lips now as you would no other food.
Linger on your tongue like wine,
or better yet, an intoxicating tincture.
My spirit’s lifted as I eat this flower,
that quivers and exudes more moisture as I savor every nibble.

Imagine my consumption is this flower’s consummation,
a holy marriage made inside my mouth.
Created for my pleasure, a narcissist’s secret thought!
It’s surely my imagination, that these petals swell,
with each and every bite, again, just a tiny bit more swollen,
I will lick them, these most luscious swollen petals.

The swelling happens when they bloom,
engorged with blood or water, wait to eat them
‘til that most sacred instance when they, completely filled,
are ready to be eaten, then the button is the moistest!
I lick these gushing petals, run my darting tongue between them,
the creases where they join together, probe them for that special spot,
that most luscious button that I taste, the one exuding tincture.

With my tongue, my lips, I kiss them, and though my mother told me not to
play with my food, I can’t help myself with these.
I must hold the petals in my fingers, feel them up against my cheek.
They are so soft, oh so soft against my body.
I’ve never played with food this way!
It’s so good, I wear it, oh, that ever-gushing tincture, on my face.

So many flowers in the gardens!
I go to pick them by the armful,
skipping gaily, return to eat them,
cry aloud: “Each one is so unique!”

For each flower whom I would pick, then, I would pray a special prayer:
that she would glory in existence,
though just a plant, yet grasp the pleasure I derived,
and glory in that joy herself,
so greatly that each petal might be enlivened,
resurrection through my act of eating,
come quite alive again, if even by explosion, or
involuntary contractions.

With a moist and gushing center,
I have bit into your flower,
your flower having fully blossomed,
she explodes inside my mouth!