Tuesday, April 7, 2009


One is roasting as I write. What else smells so rich and rewarding as a chicken roasting? Crisp of skin, moist of meat, both white and dark, the seasoning pulling the bird to the fore, the gelatinous sinews that hold together bone and juice and gristle. Even the gristle! I, tonight, sing a psalm to gristle:

Here it cooking
a slow whistle
a smell of golden fat fading over threaded flesh
so white and in need
Open the oven cave and out comes
a rush of August wind and a
gnarl on each blackened end
of gristle.

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