The Food of Imagination

by Christine Adams Beckett

The Inuit language

Has dozens of words for it.

The English only one:

Love.

Perchance the Eskimo resolved

To remove adjectives from

So sticky an idea:

Romantic, courtly, platonic,

Parental, sexual,

True.

The Greeks subcategorize

Affection, Friendship,

Eros and

Charity.

Orsino begs for the lute

To feed his imagination.

Play on!  Call Barthes’ magicians,

The selves, to manufacture

This delectable a

Diversion.

For what can a thing be

That is manufactured by

The human brain and the

Caged animal we call

The Heart?

A morsel for the idle mind

To devour in

Sophomoric Spirit.

A tale of fiction which we

Have read on gilded pages

At an impressionable

Age.

T’is laced with an addictive drug

Surging dopamine and

Norepinephrine through

Our starving bodies,

More harmlessly attained

Via a brisk run through the

Park.

Nothing but a figment, flickering

Brightly for a fickle and finite amount of time,

Illuminating, with sadistic pleasure

Immortality and Herrickian roses

Never gathered whilst in full, dewey

Bloom.