I hold the tiny duck heart 

tightly in my hand 

letting the blood 

drip down 

my forearm. 

 

This is what we do all alone.

 

Soon, I will unearth 

its yellowing body 

from the depths 

of my empty fridge 

where it has been 

bathing in salt.

 

Wash it in orange juice,

soy sauce, sugar,

every hour, on the hour,

until I send it to 

its second death 

in a hot oven.

 

Have you ever eaten duck 

then used its bone as a spoon? 

 

So many years 

I denied myself 

wasting away 

until I could 

no longer

climb stairs. 

 

I know I must slip 

this red wet thing

down my throat.

 

But I just stand here

in the morning light 

with an unbeating heart

in my open palm 

incapacitated –