Birbs

ortolan 

There is a conspiracy, 

Watch the throaty songbird  

dipping its beak into a puddle   

as its brother called to   

the sky, trilling high notes   

before your thunderous rush of wings splashed wide    

and a sack falls over your eyes.    

into a cage you live in sedated darkness but with bars of blinding light exploding every-time your beak is pried open for darkness to force himself into your mouth. He is cold, dirty, oily, and he swallows you inside out.

I open my mouth and Light pools in, its curling heat filling me whole. 

A painfully pure clarity clears my head, and my hidden cracks shine.

Connoisseurs of the dish wear a large, usually white, napkin over their head while eating, putting the bird’s whole body in one’s mouth – except for the head and beak – and biting it off at its neck. Some say the napkin serves to conceal the sight of diners spitting out bones, others that it helps to seal in aromas, and still others that it serves to fend off the shame of being seen by God eating a songbird.

It’s sort of a hot rush of fat, guts, bones, blood and meat, and it’s really delicious,”

the birds are prized for their fat, they are kept in darkness for 21 days and are sometimes blinded, prompting them to gorge on millet and grapes. Once the ortolan’s fat has tripled in volume, the bird is drowned with Armagnac, plucked, roasted and served hot in its entirety. 

Covert the flesh pan seared upon beds of spices smoked into curls of aroma

 Cover their heads with white napkins tear off the brittle jugular

Taste cardamom, pepper, roasted thyme and the lingering of a sweet song at the edge of your tongue.

“Your tea is cold.” The madam hissed in her ear.

Watch the throaty songbird dipping its beak into a puddle as its brother called to the sky, trilling high notes before a thunderous rush of wings splashed before him.

“Finish your tea.” The madam She did not respond.