Comfort Food

So this is my body at full pelt,
the crust cut away to leave
only swollen grains. This is
my flesh, baked stone dead
in clay ovens.

There's pith to the flavour
or so it would appear.
The skin is green and callow
but it ages in the sun.

This is regret; I taste it
in the texture without
measure. I could
feed a fast
of five thousand.

Hair rubbed in garlic
for extra potency and,
just for showboating,
eyes oiled over. Sadly,
these spectacles don't have lenses.