La métaphysique des mœurs
We eat the bluebird with fork and knife

we eat the bluebird raw.
We eat the bluebird in heaven
eating salt, and fresh cream
from the kitchen table, set
whiter then the corners of our
eyeballs as we widen them.

We eat the bluebird quickly,
famished, though our hunger
outlasts the carcass and afterward
we wander the house in animated
giggle, oblong stepped, the
bluebird blood runs through
our veins, runs quick like
an arrow struck from a quiver,

we eat the bluebird in gingham
dresses and aprons, our shoes are made
of leather and our hair is a thick
Germanic flaxen; our mouths
are wide marbles, overstuffed
and oversexed we pull thin bones
from our throats and marvel at
the pearl texture of our teeth,

we ate the bluebird with a strange
song in the back of our mind;
mounting the rooftops in amazement
that we could not fly.