Umami is the flavor of a poet’s tongue
when she keeps it tucked it inside her mouth,
quite often paired with a tinny taste of shrapnel
on the front end of the palate, leftover from tiny explosions
of her combustive heart.
There is also a hint of fruit forward
iron rich blood from her teeth crushing into lips,
as they try to separate the pulp from the rosy tint.

When a poet does finally open her mouth,
A herd of White Miso Bulls will often come charging out.
Of course, these are sacred (secret) bulls,
and not at all for petty hipster consumption.
They belong to their maker.
And the only way to get a taste of their extreme Umami-ness
is to pry open the poet’s mouth
while she is in the mood for making.
However, I’m afraid, this too,
would spoil the flavor with bitter consequence.


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