Fricassee of Heart

 

(SL, thanks for the deeply needed inspiration. I agree that every author has certain taboo words, one of mine is tears, and you won’t find it in this one.)

She cooked it herself.

Sliced away fragile

threads

that had always held it in place,

kept it safe,

secure in its cavity chamber.

Had to break a few stubborn bones

but managed, without too much damage,

to set it free, get it to stand alone.

Sautéed it with a bit of butter,

turning it frequently so it browned

evenly, then let it simmer in its own juices

with a few drops of vintage wine,

while she created succulent side dishes

out of nothing but hope-filled wishes

and fine-lined dreams.

Sprinkled in a bit of this,

a dash of that,

tossed it all with a vinaigrette

of fancy verbiage, a touch or two

of regret for fuller flavor.

Then sat alone

at the table she’d set,

waiting for a single guest

who would never know

he’d been

invited.

Elizabeth Crawford  9/30/09