--- 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.