Eat Your Colors

Sounds like fun!
Sounds like good pink fun.
A red fruit, orange, a yellow,
green, purple, even a white counts.
White: the only color the milk is not 
when invaded by bathing spheres of sugar cereal.
But surely that's not what's meant
by the folks who designed the food
pyramid.

All the better.

You tell me, "Eat your colors,"
and I feel
voracious.
You tell me, "You are what you eat."
Well.
Then sixty-four Crayolas are a
meager stack of colories.
I want, I need, to think, to eat
outside that box.

Give me maracujá! I love passionshout juice.
Where is my tropically impossible frosted açai?
I want to absorb, to imbibe
every blast drop of
sherbet streak from the sunscoop as it
oranges and
oozes
stickily
over the horizon's countertop.

I lick and sip the piquant triptych
of red, white, and green picante
in an unrestrained assalsa
on extreme health.
I know a brown enormously lush, 
moister than the tears that muddle it,
the bottom-line G resonant chocolate 
swirl of my daughter's flashpan eyes.
As much green as broccoli 
I could hold easily but I'd rather
burst
with the you-have-to-see-it-to-believe-it jade phosphorescence
of tomatillos in the blender.

Are you hungry yet?
Are you hungry now?
You need to come with me,
to color hunt.
There's always a shade in season
and I know where to ambush
fair-trade freesia, organic orchids, and bulk bold beautiful bounteous bougainvillea.

So wet your palate and whet your palette.
We'll be a feast for the eyes
cream.