The Peacock

By, Katherine Constant

 

Whisper to me how we’d make a pie out of his body. You’d take a picture first
of you and your gun
and the cock’s carcass held up by his feather train

in your left hand

 

Then, you’ll come into our kitchen and say, “After he’s plucked, we’ll eat him for dinner. After he’s plucked, I’ll hand you a cleaver
so you can hack at his joints.

Bleed him.
Then take a spoon and scrape out his innards.”

We’ll push cloves and cinnamon deep into his chest
and lay him to rest in a casserole.
I’ll cover his bits, thickly,

in a layer of lard and rough puff.

 

You’ll take my hand and we’ll make love while he’s roasting. And when he is finished, you’ll pull out

his coffin
from the oven
and lick your fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

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