Bone Soup, 1951
Into the red hot roil we spill, backs speckle flecked
with the wrecking heat. By fucking the farmer
we received two chunks of calf leg bones to put to boil.
Starved for days, we siphon off the fat froth,
coat our split thin lips with it. The broth is hot,
white and saltless, we suck as if from a breast.
The farmer’s barn is gutted now,
we’ve heard his last chickens were slain--
entrails snapped up to stay the fat hunger.