I like even the word "tapioca."
It sounds like the name of a Latin dance,
the beat of the Samba underscoring
the ritual movements of some Amazonian tribe.
""Come, let's do the Tapioca.""

Or it could be the local indigenous name
of a tributary of the Congo
the newsman Stanley hoped would
bring him closer to Dr. Livingstone.
""This is the Tapioca, I presume.""

Or even a tropical insect,
whose bite transmits a lethal disease,
while its genes contain the secret
to conquering the riddle of aging.
""Tapioca face cream, $26.59 a jar.""

Yet tapioca is more than these:
A confection that puts a spring
in my step, takes my spirit
to worlds unknown, and renews my youth,
when I loved those gelatinous pearls--—
even when told they were frog eyes--—the bigger, the better.

Where is it from? There's the mystery,
unlike the rice pudding they try to pawn off on me instead.


© by Bill Batcher.
Used with the author's permission.