In the gubernatorial election, the party that ran on the platform opposing the existence of dinosaurs lost. To protest, they stormed museum gift-shops and dollar stores grabbing all the clear packets of plastic pills that claimed "Dinos! Just add water!" Then in train stations and courthouses, they swallowed the pills with public water. Duped into joining the group—Frances was told they'd be freeing animals. They got dinosaur-sized stomachaches, but only he would admit it. He couldn't understand why, if dinosaurs didn't exist, it felt like something was fossilizing in his stomach.

Roaming the toilet bowl after Frances vomited, the dino-sponge was like green Swiss cheese—speckled with holes from his stomach acid. Thin sliced ham occurred to him. How his skin after a good run was the pink of thin sliced ham. Someday, he would be a better vegan. The not-dinosaurs in the shape of dinosaurs reminded him of the vegan not-shrimp in the shape of shrimp at his favorite restaurant. Shame holds its shape.

He imagined his beloved as a slab of silken tofu: solid from afar, but just won't stay together when touched.

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The silken tofu in the poem took part in [this recipe]. You should too.