By JONATHAN KAYS
Turkey, the myth, the bird, the legend. Born of greatness, hatched from the spherical dome of ivory inevitability. The emblematic embalming of every inkling to enjoy the effervescent endeavor of eating emphatically. To you I bequeath this epistle.
Turkey, underneath the starlit sky, I lay with you, my body aquiver with heat, I scarce catch my breath.
Turkey, to you I whisper my hidden fears, pulling my hair as I shake against the injustice against you.
Turkey, my love, you are the reason I awake to face the day. The reason. I. Survive.
If I could but hold you in my arms daily, feel your warmth on my lips, grasp your scent as it caresses me, enslaving my body to the desire. How jealously you entrap me in your… juices…Your succulent, succulent juices.
What a world it would be were there not… turkey.
I have no desire to eat you; rather, my desire is to gently snuggle my gustatory cells into your tender pectorals. My friends masticate on the table of thanksgiving, dreaming of your touch, savoring the image and flavor of your voluptuous legs. I will wrap my oral muscle about your angelic wings, I will cup your ventriculus in my mouth. I will take all these things and ponder them in my heart.
Turkey, animal, end in itself. A thing of God. You have graced my gastrointestinal tract, my cup overflows.
There is the strange thought that ham, that vile seductress, that hag of all mistresses, that swine, the thought that ham, could replace you. But I know better sweet poultry. I know that you in your purity will permanently propagate the plethora of peaceful preciousness that purrs from your purpose.
I want you, I need you, oh turkey, oh turkey, and more than likely, after this article, you will be my only friend.