meat poem

Dry smoke floats over the wilting orchard,
coating swollen apples with heavy musk,
masking red cranberries, streaked rhubarb,
fat dimpled gourds in a hazy ash.
The henhouse, since '98, has had a chimney
stacked with clay and brick above the chicken-wire windows.
There is no hay or feathers, but billows, string, and salt.
The meat spirals on a slow spit, brimming in a feedsack
stuffed with fennel and rosemary.

Spices mashed under my fingernails, thick lard coating my palms,
I sit on the porch steps and smell my hands.


K-ren said...

WOW! You know a lot about sausage!!

Crystal said...

my grandparents lived on a farm. we smoked a hog every thanksgiving and actually made real fresh sausage every year. :)

K-ren said...

nice nice nice :)