As another year ends
we find ourselves
in a numb post-coital phase;
with Christmas behind us
December’s purpose, too, turns into nothing
but freezing air and foggy breaths
we don’t quite know
what to do with.
Soon we rush into the upcoming
suicidal season; ins Loch fallen
as we say in German and what I do to prevent
from falling into one of those black holes
is cooking everything that moves:
a duck is the best since it used to fly, untamed.
While I roughly stuff the bird with grated apples
and smear its stripped back with honey,
I imagine how later we might also eat some of its
former ability to fly,
consume its knowledge of wildlife, its lack of
or those of future,
even might inherit its gaping pores meant for
that could beat
the dreary winter months to come.
This poem was first published by Acumen.