His Heart
He offered her his heart as sashimi
perfect slices cut with a samurai sword,
served with daikon and wasabi.
He diced it into a tartare, seasoned
with finely minced shallot and cornichons,
crowned with a raw egg yolk.
He served it hot buttered
on toast, the fat lobe oozing
like foie gras.
He braised it, ventricles and all,
with carrots and leeks and
a single onion studded with cloves.
He pressed it through a drum sieve,
folded it into stiffened egg whites
and souffléd it.
He pickled it and served it
as a side dish, steeped in vinegar
and white peppercorns.
He baked it into a pie, with
four and twenty blackbirds, but
when the pie was opened the blackbirds were dead.
He shaved wafer thin slices
into a reubens, topped with
sauerkraut, pickles and swiss.
He grilled it for surf ‘n’ turf
laid it, inadequate, next to
a poached Cornish blue lobster.
He liquidised it into a milkshake,
his aortic valve a straw,
to slurp it through.
He salted it for the winter,
but preserved, it looked, like
a Martian’s testicle.
When he had exhausted all his recipes
he disguised it as a cantaloupe melon,
which he hung from his ribcage, where
she plucked it instantly. As she ate
a huge wedge the juice dribbled
down her chin and she asked
“All I wanted was the simplest
of fruit. What took you so long
to offer it to me?”
Richard Cook is a charity fundraiser who started writing poetry last year. He is due to start the MA in Creative & Life Writing at Goldsmith’s this September.