I Will Never Eat Pulpo—

the ghostly shell
of the octopus
upon a plate
readied for consumption
by those of us more cruel
than those of us
who revere her
in her cephalopodial glory.

The octopus sees you
as you come toward
with prongs of destruction
and tastes your craving—
sickening.

Our inks distinguish us—
hair, and skin, and suction,
the melanins of our creation.

I will never eat pulpo—
I will, instead, worship her
with the elevation of propulsion,
and speak softly to her statocysts.