I am an insignificant &
this moment into
the next… .
I am an insignificant &
this moment into
the next… .
Like many women,
I drink wine,
and pine for a size two figure,
while sneaking oil drenched bread
and, flip through images
of teenagers on stilts
whose line drawn thighs
render their vanishing points
They laugh and skip,
hand in hand
down cobblestone streets
in Paris or Japan.
and I sit in my soft chair
for that second in time
when I was dumber.
This has become one of my most favorite poems. This poem pushes us to confront one of the least attractive realities of existence- where are food comes from. It achieves this by stripping away our blinders and luring us deep into what is considered repulsive by clothing it with seductive or comforting imagery using lines, such as these, “Blood like liquor” or “Stainless steel altars.”
Normally, we would instinctively turn away from such scenes, and if we happened to be the executioner of cornish hens, we would find a way to anesthetize ourselves while in the act. However, this poem forces us to confront it by employing a sort of poetic wizardry. I am often brought to tears by it.
Of course, filters are there to help us sugarcoat reality, enough to keep us from going mad. However, a good poet, or poetic writer, is conditioned and has worked to develop fortitude to stare reality right in the eyes. She must be both sensitive and strong, and courageous too. They risk madness all the time. But we need them because they keep us from checking out completely. They also show us the beauty we overlooked while we were averting our gaze.
As a society, we have become addicted to filters and applying them to every problem whether they are needed or not. We watch TV, take drugs, play video games, photoshop our selfies and experience, practice too much politeness, and willful ignore the violence that underlies our very existence. We also believe in the possibility of a perfection that is wholly light and aesthetic because we are blind to the actual mechanics of life, which can sometimes be dark and ugly. However, perfection is achieved through the balance of the two. I personally believe we are perfect and I think this poem shows us the other side of perfection.
I personally find it to be a very liberating poem because it helps us to see who we are in relation to reality instead of the stage.
I pulled the text of the following poem from the Author’s website. There is a link at the bottom of the page.
What did I love about killing the chickens? Let me start
with the drive to the farm as darkness
was sinking back into the earth.
The road damp and shining like the snail’s silver
ribbon and the orchard
with its bony branches. I loved the yellow rubber
aprons and the way Janet knotted my broken strap.
And the stainless-steel altars
we bleached, Brian sharpening
the knives, testing the edge on his thumbnail. All eighty-eight Cornish
hens huddled in their crates. Wrapping my palms around
their white wings, lowering them into the tapered urn.
Some seemed unwitting as the world narrowed;
some cackled and fluttered; some struggled.
I gathered each one, tucked her bright feet,
drew her head through the kill cone’s sharp collar,
her keratin beak and the rumpled red vascular comb
that once kept her cool as she pecked in her mansion of grass.
I didn’t look into those stone eyes. I didn’t ask forgiveness.
I slid the blade between the feathers
and made quick crescent cuts, severing
the arteries just under the jaw. Blood like liquor
pouring out of the bottle. When I see the nub of heart later,
it’s hard to believe such a small star could flare
like that. I lifted each body, bathing it in heated water
until the scaly membrane of the shanks
sloughed off under my thumb.
And after they were tossed in the large plucking drum
I loved the newly naked birds. Sundering
the heads and feet neatly at the joints, a poor
man’s riches for golden stock. Slitting a fissure
reaching into the chamber,
freeing the organs, the spill of intestines, blue-tinged gizzard,
the small purses of lungs, the royal hearts,
easing the floppy liver, carefully, from the green gall bladder,
its bitter bile. And the fascia unfurling
like a transparent fan. When I tug the esophagus
down through the neck, I love the suck and release
as it lets go. Then slicing off the anus with its gray pearl
of shit. Over and over, my hands explore
each cave, learning to see with my fingertips. Like a traveller
in a foreign country, entering church after church.
In every one the same figures of the Madonna, Christ on the Cross,
which I’d always thought was gore
until Marie said to her it was tender,
the most tender image, every saint and political prisoner,
every jailed poet and burning monk.
But though I have all the time in the world
to think thoughts like this, I don’t.
I’m empty as I rinse each carcass,
and this is what I love most.
It’s like when the refrigerator turns off and you hear
the silence. As the sun rose higher
we shed our sweatshirts and moved the coolers into the shade,
but, other than that, no time passed.
I didn’t get hungry. I didn’t want to stop.
I was breathing from some bright reserve.
We twisted each pullet into plastic, iced and loaded them in the cars.
I loved the truth. Even in just this one thing:
looking straight at the terrible,
one-sided accord we make with the living of this world.
At the end, we scoured the tables, hosed the dried blood,
the stain blossoming through the water.
I am postmodern,
a season leashed by its
A-possibility-soup sans mire-poix
where ideals are as sacred as
the phantom wings of amputated
My name was invented by a feather
dipped in confiscated ink
possessed by the man
as a Mondrian tie, while
Rothko lines of ineffable truth
confound both scholars and priests alike
and artists held me to their glue.
An eternity spent without spare time
has made me
blind to any natural cortège,
I march like rain, elude any shelter
and have finally arrived to announce the end
of all subsequent eras.
The opposition, trapped in distraction, refuses to offer
any counter argument,
and so I remain…unchanging in time.