Toil and Trouble

by Lesley Graham

In the guddle of my warm kitchen
I think of your bones in that cold place, &
bear down on the knife that severs the head 
of the hen. Its pimpled skin stretches,
glinting ligaments resist, vertebrae 
crack and cede. I bin the scraggy 
neck — single eye staring back
in reproach. Those were fuggy weekends 
in your too-small kitchen, learning to 
make confit, our slippery hands wrist-deep
in duck fat, slowly softening to dough.
Adept now, I rub butter into naked bird, 
giblets out, bread and garlic in, a glossy 
bay leaf laid on her hunched chest as a 
wreath. Set in the roasting pan, she is as 
snug as your newborn grandchild.