The Gothic Gourmet washes her hands
and flexes her fingers, warming up for
the next taste Epiphany, knowing the Holy Ghost of Escoffier beams down approvingly from above, he
whispers in her ear a fatal incantation;
Blanquette de Veau à la Normande...
automatically, she reaches
for the Calvados, considering...
a hefty slug right then and there, so her
gullet would burn just like her heart
She lines up her knives and boards
with surgical precision, and ties herself
into her apron, and onto her stove

First, the shallots, carrots, bouquet garni-
The usual suspects of haute cuisine...
Next, she's cubing veal
(how to cube her lover's heart, they'll never teach at Cordon Bleu...)
powdering it all over in a see-through plastic bag, transparent
like her motives..and if only it were
just so easy to seal in his heart, it would be pink, like veal...sizzling in her pan...
Angry, then, her knife descends
to guillottine the leeks for sins
Blurring fast on the beechwood board
She'll flambé him, all right...
pouring on the Calvados setting it ablaze,
calmly shaking the pan around, and now...in they go, the studded onion
clove, the shallots, carrots, apples,
the Meursault, so enticing...exactly
what she's doing, really, waiting for
this dish sensation to deliver
the coup-de-grace her body didn't...

She sips her Calva, deep in thought
Making her seduction plans
High time to start dessert, she thinks
picking over raspberries, wondering that peaches are so pretty, aren't they
so much easier to peel and slice
than her lover's ever been...