My marrow bones roast at 425 degrees for 18 minutes, glistening fatty in the forced oven light. Which ones are the marrow bones, you ask?
Femurs are your best bet. Scraped out with a long, thin spoon like a speculum. Extracting the marrow — invasive intimacy —
performed in an echoing home.
You serve me on a handmade cutting board with lemon wedges and nasturtium petals. You eat me on toast points, letting me drip down your chin.
I am a:
❏ Pack of wolves
to hunt me down and preheat the oven
Holly Salvatore is a farmer in CO. Their work has appeared in Honey & Lime, Kissing Dynamite, Barren, Wellington Street Review, and others. They tweet @Queen_Compost and can usually be found outside.