We Make Chia Pudding
By Sa Whitley
And it ain’t half bad either with a little bit
of honey and your sticky hand reaching
around the wide waist of a thick glass jar.
This, too, takes hours, expansion, and cream.
This is just to say, I want to have and to hold
the fridge door open for a damn good reason:
we watch as the chia seeds undress
into their full selves, completely submerged.
A seed is a body without armor. It opens
to new touch, emerges out of savory metamorphosis
knowing better its own slipperiness of self.
Of course, the white and black of the matter
is altogether less, shall we say, overdone.
Look at how unbuckled the black ones
seem in the arms of the other. But if we’re
gonna do this, we may as well do it up right:
dice a colored peach into raw wet bits
of flesh with the skin on, swallow everything
we set before us whole.
