Windbreak House

Beef Eater
by Linda M. Hasselstrom


I have been eating beef hearts
all my life.
I split the smooth maroon shape
lengthwise,
open it like a diagram, chambers exposed.
I cut tough white membranes off valves,
slice onions over the heart,
float it in water,
boil it tender.
I chop prunes, apricots, mushrooms
to mix with dry bread,
sage from the hillside.
I pack the crevices full,
nail the heart together,
weave string around the nails.


Gently,
I lift the full heart
between my hands,
place it in the pan
with its own blood, fat, juices.
I roast the heart
at three hundred fifty degrees
for an hour or two.
Often I dip pan juices,
pour them lovingly over the meat.
When I open the oven,
the heart throbs
in its own golden fat.


I thicken the gravy with flour,
place the heart with love
on my grandmother’s ironstone platter,
slice it evenly from the small end;
pour gravy over it all,
smile as I carry it to the table.


My friends have begun to notice my placid air,
which they mistake for serenity.
Yesterday a man remarked on my large brown eyes,
my long eyelashes,
my easy walk.


I switched my tail at him
as if he were a fly,
paced
deliberately
away.




--from Land Circle: Writings Collected from the Land
Fulcrum Publishing, Golden Colorado
published 1991, paperback edition published 1993
Anniversary Edition published 2008


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