Les Nymphes Aurore
We have surrounded the house
of the French chef.
He is inside skinning tarragon leaves
from their stems,
boiling vinegar, crushing peppercorns,
grinding sea salt,
dipping and licking his fat finger
in the cream.
We stare through the lighted window
that frames his aproned bulk.
On the hob, something bubbles and steams.
The hair curls around his neck
as he stirs.
Slit the skin at the back of the neck
and pull it apart.
Cut the backbone so that the legs are still joined.
Cut off the feet, skewer the legs and soak
until the flesh whitens and swells.
Dry the legs and cook according to the recipe.
Hairs will loosen during cooking.
They will rise to the surface and be scooped off
in a scum of subcutaneous fat.
Usually three pairs per serving are allowed.
But we are not greedy; we may be many
but the young still suck the soft strands
of marshweed and algae,
the dripping fur of moss.
They still kick for joy in the cold black water
of the mudpools.
They are beautiful and sparkling and green…
les nymphes aurore!
We wait, gleaming
in carelessly-thrown kitchenlight.
We are not greedy;
one pair will suffice for tonight’s meal.
Jane Lovell is the Poetry Society Stanza Rep for Warwickshire. She has had work published in a number of anthologies and journals including Agenda, Earthlines, Poetry Wales, Envoi, the North, Dark Mountain, Zoomorphic, Mslexia, New Welsh Review and Ink, Sweat and Tears. She won the Flambard Prize in 2015 and was recently shortlisted for the Basil Bunting Prize and the Wisehouse Poetry Award.