He puts the beef tip in his mouth. First the tongue
becomes aware of it, of its heat, of the gravy, not
of the Worcestershire or the garlic or the touch
of soy sauce, but of it as a whole, in bulk. It is too
in a hurry, too frenzied to wait, to dispatch its
tasters. Besides, the teeth don’t wait, they break
the bit, no doubt by instinct, their only instinct,
and the meat gives in so resistlessly, the fibers
part with each other and with themselves. Before
they dissolve, the fork brings in the mashed
potatoes (there is no time to tell the voices apart,
the russet from the Yukon, not the cream cheese,
and only vaguely the salt). Then the gullet yanks it
and drags it in its blindness, out of view of the taste.
With a second serve the surprise that was
isn’t. The lack of it repeats itself, again and again,
until it doesn’t. The astringency of the wine erases
the little taste left. The nuisance trapped between
molars (the tongue harasses it) is the only
remain. In a couple of minutes, the memory of it
is as remote as ten years later.
There is this hurry in things without which the bite
would never end, the gull would be sitting in the palm
of the air, the coconut would never fall.
Without which gravity would never ask it to.

____

Boudin, November 2024