Ode to Foie Gras

I hope
that when my enzymes puncture
your membrane it splatters
like stomping a juicebox
of multipurpose plasma.
I sincerely wish
for each of your molecules to burst
like the spine
of a wooden angel
against my knee.
Our first showdown
I did not puke
you out because I was sure
the squeaky Samoyed
on the couch was gonna lap
up my vomit
and throw you up
with equal zeal.
Friday night after Saturday night
of teenage binge drinking Rosie dragged
me ninety minutes
on that last yellow tram
into France
and down two hills
three farms
a trillion cobblestones
and past an autistic kangaroo
so we could lean
across the tiny marble island
in her kitchen
and eat you.
Gradually my tongue
realized that piping
corn down a frightened duck's
throat until its stomach exploded
and then extracting
and frying its liver
granted it nothing
less than a victory of flavor.
Today if I were to return to school,
rather than eat valu time
whipped cream
off a stripper's pubis
while she did a natural light
keg stand I would force
my friends to sit
in a dorm room
play darts
listen to jazz
drink cheap champagne
and eat you
like a classier insecure freshman.
I drip
funky church water
on myself just to pray
that next time we dine
your full body
is kebabed
on my cupcake's nipple
and continues to synthesize
glucose produce
albumin and break down
hemoglobin in a delicious
hepatocytic free for all
that makes the sheep
proud on doomsday.