A Lion Tears At The Meat of An Antelope
A lion tears at the meat of an antelope.
We take the meat of an antelope,
cut it into cubes,
rub it with a spice mix of marjoram, oregano, thyme, paprika, rosemary, coriander, and cumin,
pour the liquid made from olives grown three thousand miles away into a skillet
made of minerals dug from the earth of Africa, Asia, South America, and hardened
by heat in a factory of the Midwest,
heat the oil on gas from a field of Louisiana, on a stove made from minerals, plastics, silicon
and other materials in another factory of, say, Illinois,
and while the rubbed meat is put into the oil to sizzle,
we chop onion, bell peppers, red, orange, yellow and green, garlic, and leeks,
adding the onion and garlic to the pan first to release their oils,
stirring with a wooden spoon made from a tree in Oregon,
and when the meat is browned we cover, and simmer for a hour ,
adding at the end tomato from California, black pepper from Mexico and sea salt from, well, a sea.
Now for a chop salad and dessert, we . . . never mind.
Did I mention wine?
If needed we could get down on all fours and chew grass, survive;
or maybe hunt in packs and chew on a still warm deer,
tearing the venison with our teeth while the black eyes still watch.
But we don’t.
This is civilization, and why you have to learn.
Civilization is not biological; it is handed on.
Like this poem, which a lion cannot read.