Over the holm oak bench in the sala de comida,
the weyard sisters of Macbeth shuffle to
nab their toadies, while a crone
off a bust of Houdon's Voltaire,
gap-toothed and smirking
slurps the milksop brindled tripe
of slaughtered autumn veal,
to purge whatever's sanguine
in the bowels, where the artist
nourishes his trite lament.
Tongue in aspic, horehound,
kale and borage and wormwood,
they've mixed unique alembics,
nourishing and near-fatal
to the ones who sup on sweet
marjoram and rue: salve
for the clattering of kidney
stones or too much galantine
of turkey with buckwheat groats,
who cares! as long as there's a shuck
of anchovies near by. Better still:
just a consumee of thin stone soup.
Sugar from Barbadoes, cream of nettle,
zamburiñas, tureens of matelote
with a glass of sherry port.
Aah. The ghost's said grace
and whizzled through my insides
and exited the other end.