Sugar
White cliffs of calcium, iron’s red arts,
Salt’s mineral charge inside of our hearts.
These bodies need rocks — there’s no argument.
The periodic table pays its rent
For all of this soft and compliant flesh.
Yes, metal and stone are part of the mesh.
But crystalline carbon, queen of all meat
Sits high on her throne — our brains and the heat
Of genitals fused by the id’s squalid dreams.
So odd that we’re fed on the transparent gleams
Dissolved from a diamond’s sweet, slutty friend.
In insulin juice, sugar reaches its end:
Cerebral desires, gray matter’s command,
The tongue’s fertile twist, this pen in my hand.
Elizabeth Hurst
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, Elizabeth Hurst
would like to hear them
