For We Write Poems prompt #22 What’s For Dinner
(SL, thanks for the deeply needed inspiration. I agree that every author has certain taboo words, one of mine is tears, and you won’t find it in this one.)
The prompt today was to make use of some form of the language of cooking to create a poem. I fried fish for my Muse yesterday, so today you get an older piece that never saw a lot of sunlight. This is pure imagination and not at all autobiographical.
Fricasee of Heart
She cooked it herself.
Sliced away fragile
that had always held it in place,
kept it safe,
secure in its cavity chamber.
Had to break a few stubborn bones
but managed, without too much damage,
to set it free, get it to stand alone.
Sautéed it with a bit of butter,
turning it frequently so it browned
evenly, then let it simmer in its own juices
with a few drops of vintage wine,
while she created succulent side dishes
out of nothing but hope-filled wishes
and fine-lined dreams.
Sprinkled in a bit of this,
a dash of that,
tossed it all with a vinaigrette
of fancy verbiage, a touch or two
of regret for fuller flavor.
Then sat alone
at the table she’d set,
waiting for a single guest
who would never know
Elizabeth Crawford 9/30/09