Marrow and Heart with Grated Turnip Leaves that Have Never Seen the Light of Day, Grilled Bread, and Lovage Salt
That’s how I detach from the nest I made
out of yesterday:
Too hot, and the white bowl
I’ve washed and cleaned of dirt
the other ingredients. Too cold, and the morning
becomes dull and uninteresting.
No one wants
to be reminded of silt, the river, the decomposing
It’s better to be twelve slices of good bread,
the marrow from the femur of a fresh cow,
the heart still red enough to yearn for.
Turnips in the cellar twist in the darkness
without sun. The heart is diced,
placed on the underside of the lip, blood warm, inside
of a wet bone.
I saw the calf to dust, keep moving, reserve
myself, this time in a pewter bowl. Fold the raw heart
to the marrow. Grate the turnip without
its yellow leaves.
I step back, remove any blood vessels, fat, or other
unwanted parts. It is important to maintain
that the body isn’t breakable.