Guidebook
I wake the Christmas duck at midnight. 
Snap back the neck, tie the feet together and let hang
an unborn child come from outside of me, dreaming 
of the days I choked over an egg and slice of bread. 

How my heart rattled, hollow as a fist, 
rotted meat no feast could fatten 
in a checkered gown licking honey from the lips of warm foil. 
How when I hid under a chair, my spine softened. 

Beneath my eyelids, Grandmother hovers with her cold 
peppermint tea. The bird 
waits: I muss the feathers with oil and pluck them, 
one by one, from rubber skin, push down the blade 
to crack the breastplate, and fold back the meat. 

The white pearly nectar of my heart glistens in my chest.
Grandmother says eat.
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