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.