“Poem #6 in the Style of Barefoot Contessa Pan-Searing Steak” by Joshua Borders

We wake at dawn, cursing the Lord God

Bird for its incessant pecking, carving its mansion

In the mausoleum of the not-yet dead.


I can’t do this anymore, you say,

And I hate clichés, so at least be

Original when you place my heart


Squarely on the cutting board

And chop away.