by Robert Laughlin
A baggie wrapped around my hand,
I heft the prickly pear, a multicolored vegetable grenade.
The next bin over are some nopal cactus leaves,
So recently bedecked with spines;
Beyond them bins of chilies, fresh and dried,
And hanging on the wall, cayenne in bags—
That stuff that makes you choke to death
Should someone spray it in your face.
I think, the Inquisition and the bullfight aren’t enough;
The Spanish culture that produced them both
Has made the dining room another place
For torture of the innocent.
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