By Kristina England
Grandma says eggplant’s got grace,
Ain’t nothing prettier than lady hips,
a figure with some real body to it.
She cuts up the uncooked fruit,
dips each thin, round slice into
egg batter, and fries them up.
I eagerly bite into my first piece,
pause, and scrunch up my nose,
then push aside the dinner plate.
Grandpa smiles and nods at me,
Yup, tastes just like damn cigarettes.
It’s what’s on the inside that counts.