... salt, and butter. Heat a pan till a drop of blood
will sizzle on its surface.  No, not too much salt,
the muscle has a briny taste, which makes sense
as we were always so much at sea.  

He liked cooking up the 'innards', gnawing on the neck, 
while no one fought me for the gizzard, its twin humps
yielding to a slow peeling by my teeth.  The liver 
was always last, something we shared, one of the few things 
we ever shared because, back then, he always got the wings.