I Eat Your Soul

I paint an image of corn
with warm yellow kernels
and a cool green husk.
The background is
not quite purple,
not quite pink.

I show it to my wife
and she says, “I like it”
which is her usual response.
We discuss the colors,
and how the appearance changes
depending on the light.

We need to replace the kitchen floor
so we drive to the store
to look at tiles.
We find slabs of dirt
pressed and baked and shipped
from thousands of miles away.

We leave with a few samples,
we stop for gas
and I pump fuel
made of 90% petroleum
and 10% ethanol
into the tank.
Ethanol made from corn.

My wife says she’s hungry
and we go to a taqueria.
I order a fish taco and tortilla chips.
She asks me, “What’s that thing called?”
“Chilaquiles?” I say.
“Yeah, I want that,” she says.

The walls of the restaurant
are mint green and soft pink.

We eat corn.
Corn tortillas.
Corn with fish,
corn with eggs,
corn with guacamole,
ground and pressed like tiles,
placed on a griddle
and baked into little cakes.

I meet up with some friends
and I show them the painting.
They suggest titles.
“I come for your soul” seems to stick.
I scribble it down on a piece of paper.
I think about it and then I write,
“I eat your soul.”