Let me tell you about my thighs.
My thighs are Wagyu beef.
My thighs are marbled meat nestled in Girl Scout cookie fat.
My thighs are thick and juicy.
My thighs are the stuff of legends.
If Wolfgang Puck saw my thighs he would hide them in the back,
Only hinting at them to the whales of Las Vegas.
“For you, something special I think…”
Salt Bae would wrap my thighs in gold leaf
And tremble in ecstasy as salt tumbled down his forearm onto my thighs
It would be so insufferable that viewers would hate the homage,
But covet my thighs.
If my thighs went up for auction,
Women in sunglasses and heirloom furs would have assistants raising placards in
A cold, desperate fury, bidding my thighs higher and higher
They’d make a special exception for my thighs at Tsukiji Market.
My thighs would sit on blocks of ice and no one would be allowed close
The rare bellies of the carnivorous tuna would ache in memory
Of what was lost, resting so close to my beautiful thighs.
If you saw my thighs on a barbecue
Caramelizing, mesmerizing, spitting and sizzling,
You’d go mad hoping for a bite.
You’d contemplate veganism if the host said “no.”
You’d lick your lips and pray to the god of your choice
For a thin sliver of my gorgeous thighs.
And I wouldn’t blame you.
I’d take a bite myself.
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The Magpie Says... 