Pizza Ends For Everyone

If we know from experience that every end brings a new beginning,
What is our fascination with memorializing either concept
As a “thing” that stands alone?
I’ll tell you why. It’s our love of pie.
We even call the object of our collective dietary addiction
That is sans blueberry or cherry,
A pie…
Preparing our pizzas as disks
Round like the earth and the moon.
Available on every street corner.
Slathered, savory comfort to feed our many holes on the go.
Neatly so.
Because anything in a circle shape that gets cut into equal slices
Brings joyful order to our broken child.
We satiate our beasts of quantitative need
To spare us of the mystery, that’s harder to swallow.
“When the moon hits your eyes like a big pizza pie, that’s…”
An amore we can feel comfortable about.
Pies may not get us in touch with the mystery
Where boundless quality replaces quantity’s measures.
But we were never hurt by them, either.
We angst over getting our “piece” of whatever pie
We think will round out our puzzle, for quite a long while.
From penny stock to property to pumpkin.
Until we remember we were always whole, and can just chill.
Whether we acquire or not, no matter.
Because we’re not the pizza, but the oven stone.
Our most precious circle is discovered to be our own form.
As it holds a beach ball.
As it hugs a friend.
As it sleeps in fetal position.
As it radiates in the rain.
We are something better left undivided.
And that is when the knife finally comes for us. Isn’t it ironic.
We’ve heard that “fear is our friend”.
Well my friendship with fear is only ever rekindled
When I hand away my ends,
As well as my beginnings.
When I’m no longer fueled to make a story out of the end of one slice,
And the start of another.
And then maybe I go buy myself some pizza.
Not to fill myself in this time.
For I finally got to my smile, first.
It’s my whole pie, rather than my broken child,
Heading to the corner.
© 2017. Sherry Mills, Inc.
