dress me using salad bar tongs-- 
i'll learn to yell
as loudly as your fried chicken strips

every girl-body has been a cherry tomato 
at some point in their life-- 
take me
seed and skin and dry-- 
we salad 
bar sisters waiting to be dressed
in whatever he's looking for today--
wield tong and spatula--
we figure out from a young age
that there's nothing beautiful
about being subjected
to salad bars-- illusions 
of choice--
we'll still end
up measuring the honey mustard dressing
into our hair with table spoons--
we have to fit 
on buffet plates--
no one ever heard of a fat 
salad-- why did he shred us
into carrots?-- medallion of cucumber?--
cubes of bruised knee beats--
tassels of a bean spout we
use to sleep on under
the blare of neon light--
NO
i'm telling you i get to 
CRACKLE--
SIZZ-- burn grease on wrists--CRINKLE--
BLOP-- oil bubbles swet from sunflowers
we make salad tongs to keep
the spring mix from from telling
all the girl-bodies about the
fryers-- they don't want us
to know about how it feels
to CRACKLE-- wash bodies in
rapture-- walk stain on 
another man's collar shirt--
i'm not hear to balance another
cherry tomato on my forehead
for you-- peel the bacon flakes
off my arm like freckles--
we baked the croutons while
you were looking-- roasted sunflower
seeds to snack on while
we waited for forks to toss us--
no one chooses raspberry vinaigrette--
light italian just so they 
know we're still wearing something
for them--
men love a girl-body
in training on a buffet plate--
warm-- pushing leaves of romaine from
in front of her eyes--
cuts her bangs with a fork
of pickle coins-- flip heads
or tails or vinegar spatter--
spit into the arugula-- spinach
fanned in the summer--
i came here to scream-- 
i couldn't
do that under the leaves--
burst-break-bulge from the bouncy ball
yolk of wilting hard boiled egg--
toss me from plate to plate--
radish-- ranch dressing racket ball
while all you were doing was stalling 
the fryers--
i am
yelling louder--
i am press spatula--
i am fingers of potato we 
sent into the oil to become obelisks--
i am peeled slices of chicken back
sent to sin--
i am toppling off buffet plates
and bleeding through the napkin
on your lap--
we girl bodies are sick 
of the quiet--
sick of fork clink and measuring
the oil into our hair--
we want to bathe--
we want to be dangerous--
smudge ourselves on
everything we touch-- jump into
the fryer-- corn dog dive--
cut out onion rings
to wear as bangles--
popcorn chicken pearls--
scream into the paper trays
in the sweat of a sunflower 
where we taught you these
girl bodies were always too big to
be dressed by only the salad
bar tongs 
pressing us into the
shape of another 
cherry tomato-- 
get oil angry-- crown in sesame bun--
eat me fast--
i want to make you feel guilty
for once--