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--- C H R I S T I N E   B A I N E S

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.

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