Standing in an aisle of fruits and vegetables,
past sacks of flour and rows of canned beans,
bread loafs sheathed in plastic,
potatoes and corn bagged in edible disguises,
glistening pink salmon, scintillating trout,
gray piled clams, blood red beef, pale pork,
a display of spices with foreign accents,
whispering seductions in my tongue’s ear.
Kneeling down to take an off-brand mustard from a low shelf
I am overcome by the urge to apologize to the array of dead
plant and animal life spread before me,
not for my hunger, not for my appetite,
but for my lack of reverence and casual ingratitude
in this cathedral of sacrifice which meets my holy need.