Saturday, February 18, 2012

A good gravy

Think of your lover when you're at the grocery, looking at all the sprawled out meat. Pass by the tenderloins and chops and sausage all bound up in their casings of twisted membrane. Hesitate at the fish counter and examine the smooth, glossy flesh of catfish and halibut and Salmon that will bubble all thick, white fat in the heat of your oven. Continue on to the plump roasting birds and recall how good it feels to slather the cool, moist breast with butter. How pretty it looks all salted and peppered before you slide it in. Imagine the smile on his face when you hand him a plate of steaming goodness or take the ladle in your hand and pour hot, velvet sex into his bowl, kiss his forehead and thank him for being there, for loving to eat, for wanting your food. Think about the mushroom of his subconscious swelling beneath you in the morning, shooting spores across the forest floor. Chop the heart and kidneys with your freshly sharpened knife and consider his desire as you strip muscle from the gizzard with fat-glistened fingertips as the broth boils on the stove. This makes a very good gravy, all giblet and lust and the sweet, dripping anticipation of feeding his fever, starving his cold and filling his growling, starving belly again and again and again.