Hummingbird cake can be dry,
Must be slightly over-baked
To dull the overbearing sweet,
Best served warm
With lemon-nutmeg butter drizzle.
Bat-wing soup is a taste acquired.
It doesn’t seem to matter
That you have eaten turtle, alligator, eel,
All of which taste like chicken
If you hold your breath while chewing.
I am telling you,
My Beloved Amateur,
You cannot purchase bat flesh.
You have to do the killing
Yourself.
You cannot shoot Him
Even with a silver bullet
As the wing must remain intact,
And let’s face it,
If your aim was that good
You would not be Hellbent on this task.
You cannot poison Him
Without tainting yourself.
He is too intelligent to be trapped
And He can see you coming
In the Dark.
My Beloved Amateur,
You must become a bat to catch one,
Sitting immobile
In His silent blue-black net of night.
Trust me, He will find you
And the only way to kill Him
Is to love Him,
Which is easy
Because He is so pitiful, curious
And affection-starved.
Bat-wing soup is an acquired taste.
How can I explain?
It has notes of winter plum,
Ether-soaked butterflies,
The heartleaf vine in rainrot,
Brown sugar,
Candied apples with razors inside,
And your soul,
My Beloved Amateur,
Your Soul.
