what’s in a mouth

my stomach, empty except for

duck tongues.

the off-brand Tupperware container, empty except for

duck tongues.

the pot that’s older than i am, empty except for

duck tongues.

the heads of the 20-something ducks whose tongues i’ve taken, full except for

their tongues.

i am the duck tongue queen of this Chinese-Canadian suburb,

and the ducks in the river behind my house fear me.

i eat duck tongues for breakfast.

i will drive 30 minutes to the Asian superstore and back for them.

these tongues, these tiny nubs of muscle,

marinated in the pepper juice of my mother’s top-secret recipe;

they freeze my mouth and set it on fire,

tongue on tongue on tongue on

tongue on tongue.

i could never tie a cherry stem into knots

but i can suck the meat off this spur of bone in two seconds.

we all find things we’re good at:

tying our laces, drawing tomatoes—

eating the parts of a duck you never even knew you could cook.