when i am an old bird


but will you love me when i am an old bird?

headless and running about the trough

neck slit and being drained out,

boil down my bones

baptise your kitchen in steam

press tenderly herbs to the compliment of my meat

salt and salt again.

choose carefully the single potato

that you douse in broth,

trim the spots finely and cast them aside.

take mind of this texture

falling apart at your worn canines

remain nourished even at the gristly bands of my hip.

will you feed and feed again

from the stock pot of all that remains

after i have grown weary

shown myself tough but not invulnerable

good enough to simmer for all those long hours

of the day.


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