The puckered mangoes, and shapely papayas have turned toward God. Once shining star fruit, purple passions, and bright durians ooze like a wound gone bad.

How about that pig head sitting pretty, smiling happy as essence, hoisted now by black-robed devotees to roast at the Taoist Temple.

Or, the man with the funny parts—sheep testicles hanging from red ribbons; livers, kidneys, cow hearts—he’s packing it in, too.

And following the market wind-down, stoic Monk Vultures perched on wires salivate, flexing talons, waiting their turn.

Bruised flowers, tied then stacked like bright kindling, line the lane as trash trucks clash in a duel of concupiscent bliss, as market juices purl from pierced bags; the sacrament of what must not be eaten.

Bio: Marcus Elman