You were food crops grown by Aztec,
their recipes dying out like glittering
embroidered handbags
made in Hong Kong.
A trapeze artist stealing cochineal insect
like Evel Knevel drinking coffee
after bread and circuses.
Burt Lancaster knew you glimmered
like flying fiesta platters of jagerschnitzel
and rose-purple cabbage.
Vulcans electrocute you in braising pans
in strange leafy villages
inside Malibu beach houses
where Spanish gypsy fortune tellers
call you water cane, water pipe in German,
shifting through their address books.
Priscilla Lee