Try my giblets, liver sauteed
in cognac and green peppercorns.

Careful with my heart,
take dainty bites around its metal bits,

aftermarket parts sewn in by surgeons,
built to last longer than I’ll need.

You see the cook was distracted
when I was made, cooking left her bored.

Lost in her incessantly private thoughts
she burned the pan,

left my tender pieces seared and crumbly.
Once she dropped me

in the big pot, she found
the constant stirring insufferable,

the bouquet mismatched, tastes veering
from soggy fries to herbed chevre.

I was her stew that wouldn’t mellow, a turmoil
of hairy carrots, kale, and stringy meat.

But now that the cook has thankfully quit,
take what you want, I’ve little need

of anything that was hers. I’ve softened,
a congenial leftover, ready to warm.