Poem of the Week

Here are the tulips,

budded and full-blown,

their swoops and dips, their gloss and poses,

the satin of their darks.

Here are the linen napkins,

texture and crinkle,

the way they soak up light

from the dwindled candle,

the light blues of their shadows.

Here are the skinned rabbits

hanging from strings

opened to muscle, to shiny gristle,

to raw flesh you can smell:

hot rust, swamp water.

Here is the woman working a knife

among onions and innards,

her sleeves turned back, besmeared.

She’s looking at us aslant:

she knows what bodies eat.

This is her job or prayer,

her grace, her offering:

these guts and dying petals,

the candle guttering down.