Turkey soup: base of bird lives




Turkey soup:
base of bird lives

Gram is 67 today.
Her leg is in a brace;
we celebrate anyway.

She hobbles from injury.
Elbows on her walker,
she’s no spring chicken.

I’m the one without a head.
Chopping blocks of inexperience.

We linger on the solar
powered hulu dancer
on the windowsill;
the hummingbird
flitting in still frames
outside by the feeder.

In Gram’s kitchen,
we squelch meat
between our fingers.

“Break down the carcass —
there’s flavor in the bones.
Boil the shit out of them.”

Turkey neck,
hung like a phone.

“Hello? Write this down.”

Some people throw the body away,
forgetting the innards.

Whereabouts of a peanut sized heart:
soup pan filled with the bird’s parts.

Bullion. Cornstarch
to thicken the paste.
Basin of savor bubbling on the stove.
The water curdles.
Stir, stir, stir.

“Here, taste.”

3 thoughts on “Turkey soup: base of bird lives

  1. Alexa

    Hey. I love this, and I love you. I love us. I love love. I love the love we share, us three ladies loving on one another.


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