Ode to Tuna Steak

Inspired by Pablo Neruda's "Ode To My Socks"

My bicycle brought me
just a mile down the road
to the market, with a myriad of scents
a thousand pungent potpourris
resting on a sill.
I walked to the fish counter
and biked away quickly
with a small package of parchment
in my basket.
The glistening flesh of the tuna
darker than Caravaggio's shadows
Softer than a mother's breast
brighter than the sand in sun
my kitchen counter was honored in this way.
It was so beautiful resting in the parchment corners
my hands seemed unworthy, like a virgin sculptor,
sculptor unworthy of cold marble
or the clear smelling tuna.

Nevertheless, I resisted the desire
to wrap it away like the perfect gift
preserving the moment, as photographers
snap frame after frame
I resisted the striking urge to open the ice box
for the possibility of prospective evenings with the tuna.
Like farmers in the field
who pick their plumpest fruit
and sink their teeth into pulp with malfeasance
I stretched out my warm fingers and rubbed
with olive oil and spice, the perfect tuna.

The moral of my ode is this:
perfection is twice perfection
and what is delicious is doubly so
when it is a matter of tuna steak
glistening gently with a healthy glow.