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Insanity wings

I cry like I've been dumped

by a funeral, chemical burns

rash-red around my swollen mouth.

The ghost chili, capsicum's

pitiless cultivar, its waxy self-

defense become a dead-hand attack.

My friends laugh compassionately.

The nearby patrons boggle

as I pound the table and turn the same

color as the sauce, homeopathic

suicide. And even so: another bite.

Each mouthful is a station of the cross.

Mr. Darwin, if you could see us now,

hacking the wings from flightless birds,

swallowing impossible fruits to show

how little we can learn from our mistakes.