Songbird Surprise
was my favourite dish,
and I knew it would be his.
From first sighting
I had imagined
being crushed into the imperiales
purple robes
of Emperor Septimius Severus,
his sword drawn
out of its gold and ruby
scabbard and plunged into me,
ruthlessly.
Oh, sweet death!
We were together,
finally,
in my triclinium,
a lyre-player
in the background,
as we reclined
on sofas, the low marble table
laid out with a little spread,
served in my floral red Samian
in asparagus sauce
with quails’ eggs, dormice
cooked in honey
and poppy seed, salted fish
with oyster dressing,
my lord, milk-fed snails,
just for you,
fried jellyfish, bear cutlets,
sliced flamingo tongue
marinated in tumeric and clove oil, am
filling my hunger, par-
cooked
courgettes, boiled
whole, sautéed peacock
brains,
melt in my mouth,
you look across, am
stuffed
dates, torn between my teeth, sow’s
udders,
lark’s tongue in Gaul garlic, spiced
with perfumed peacock
feathers
and peppered
with thyme,
is on our side, all drowned down
with finest African wine.
We were silent, letting
oils drip over lips
and chins, watching each other
lick it up with acrobatic tongues.
He was solid
like a gladiator,
my Libyan, my lover-to-be,
my libidinous warrior,
my belcher,
his black eyes
following the slope
of my shoulders, my shimmering
cerise gown, décolleté,
fastened with sapphire
clasps, set in gold, flattering
my shining bazookers,
the rise and fall,
with each excited breath.
He was in Britannia
waging war, he said, would leave
when the whole of Caledonia
to the Antonine Wall
and way up to the North Sea.
His marriage was impossibile,
he said, his wife
had gone from swan
to donkey.
He knew Felix well,
had often dined with him
at his villa in Rome (news to me).
He called me to him,
nibbled my neck, his harsh
bristle scratching
my delicate skin, stuck
his tongue down my ear, making
me squeal, growled,
Are you ready for war?