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

                   will cook

the other ingredients.  Too cold, and the morning

becomes dull and uninteresting.  

                 No one wants

to be reminded of silt, the river, the decomposing

leaves. 

      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,

                    the needle

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

          the illusion

that the body isn’t breakable.