Water the secret to these offal
simple recipes, the wet dark blood
soaking the spongy organ no weight
of pungent flavor could hold against
the splatter of angry grease flying
from the roiling clouds of the fryer
like arcing bolts of sear and burn
fusing heat’s tattoo script on skin.
But the muscle of grist softens
in the pressure of steam’s boil
until the whistle valve spits forth
the stinging mist of essence’s stink,
the knot of chew readying its rubber
gravel pop for the willing mouth
through a slow crusted sink and
rise in the surface of the gold bath.
Both wait and wait for that special
tongue, mother wit hungry for half-
or full pints of one, the other, or
sometimes both, transitory crispy
nuggets sweating and drying out
until gut goes to gut or trash, when
what is thrown away is prized or lost.
Photo By: Parée
