The philosophy of gravy
like dark comedy, is the butt-end
of the winter’s bounty.

The last drops of juice eked out,
now condensed by frost,
now painstakingly reduced
with herbs
gathered from the forest;
aroma masking the froth of blood.

Salt in the wounds of the year,
crusting, palms rubbed pink to extract
the last possible crackle.

All that’s left is to smother your potatoes
belly heavy with brown and
howl into the black hours-

Please, Earth,
turn, please.

*

From Magma 86, Food

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