“shank”
by jessica ahrens
legs for agility bless kisses to the silt ingénue;
tethered tissue upon pumped fiber drafts
zephyr contract in each sole print—
iron whispers of the sky's clandestine arrangements,
gratified by the hostile monarch's grasp over rue
and her dear cousin: rosemary—
ameliorated by fabric over
poor tendon,
sheathing the scandalous ankle
till the timed baked cradle wakes
just in time for the first sought
on the fine China dinner plate: sprig
lacquered with sweet Sherry ambition,
polyurethane-blanketed queries,
and maraschino covenants
roasted in an afterthought of
the heft nest that the legs carry
to the trestle on opposing sides—
when the ones on the surface do not suffice,
how will you walk?
placed in front of a rotisserie chicken or a bucket full of fried cuts, my favorite was the legs. the built-in handle made for easy eating, and the meat was always tender and savory. how strange it is that legs, which carry the burden of the body, are the tastiest to eat. when i find myself unable to walk, paralyzed by pain that is unnatural for my age, i find this paradox even more jarring. how can i eat my legs?