Ortolans

Speaking of blindness, the man told his one-eyed fiancée,

have you heard about the ortolans? Fig-peckers of yellowhammer

descent. Thumb-sized or tongue-sized. Kings used to catch them

at summer’s end, knife-blind them so that in their darkness

they’d feast on millet all day, all night, a break from beetles and seeds,

until they grew from one ounce to four. Drowned

in Armagnac, plucked, placed in a saucepan, roasted,

you eat them whole, so the head dangles between your lips,

crunch bones like hazelnuts, underneath the linen napkin

you must place over your head to create a scent tent

or, so God won’t see your shame. (Proust paired

them with sips of Yquem, a sauterne born of noble

rot — grapes like ashes, their wet dried

in the nick of time, so honeysuckle turns to bitter

finish.) Mediterranean salt emerges as flight bursts

in your mouth. Imagine yourself a memory, a body full

of meal, as Mitterrand must have, eating ortolans

eight days before dying, his last illegal act. Fifteen minutes

of savoring a supple, burning ball of fat until you exhaust

its roast juices. When you finally swallow, you will regret

the end of a sensual experience. At least once in your life,

you must pay the price for this princely folly.