To eat a song bird:
Put a napkin over your head.
Capture the fragrant steam
close for breathing.
Teeth break small bones,
a gratifying crunch.
I swear by my left breast
and my next glass of champagne.
I promise, my eyes virtuous,
a trick learnt at my grandmother's knee
having to do with exact percentage
of pupil hidden by lash.
All my grandmothers, exemplary women,
knew to keep their virtue
in its place -- under a napkin.
Sworn and shorn I wait
for who peeks and puts
a finger
on my nipple.
I understand
I am snared.