thirteen ways of cooking a snail     Among the flowering rhododendrons     The only moving thing     The horn of a snail     I was three in minds     How to cook my snail,     To roast, fry, or grill it.     It waved its little silvery horn at me.     Ugh. It left a trail of slime on my flowers.     A snail and a chef     Are one.     A snail and a chef and a pot     Are one.     I did not know how to cook my snail,     The beauty of roasting it     Or the beauty of frying it,     The rich garlic juices running down     My freshly shaven cheeks     The hot water filled my French pot.     I picked up my snail,     I am lucky I am not a snail,     It hissed in the water,     It bubbled and bobbed.     It was cooked     O thin men of Connecticut     Why image raw snails?     Do you see how philosophical     It is to cook them?     It's a sign of French culture.     I know the noble roasts     And other juicy meats:     But I also know     The sweet aromas of cooked snails     Served on delicate plates     When I ate my snail     I looked down at my plate     And found it empty!     At the sight of a snail     Moving among my rhododendrons     I howl with delight     And my stomach turns somersaults.     My snail road over all     My flowering bushes     Inside his little shell.     He looked at me with fear,     He mistook the shadow of my hand     For the eye of a blackbird.     The water is boiling.     My snail is cooking.     It was evening. I was still hungry.     It was snowing     Or about to snow.     I was grubbing about in my bushes,     Looking for another snail to cook.     John Digby back