SHAPE SHIFTING

(an old one)

 

SHAPE SHIFTING

 

Last night for my dinner

I slit open a womb of squash,

scooped out the papery ivory eggs,

sliced a green-white onion body so wet and alive

the two halves would not  fit tight together.

I made a salad of living things,

infants of broccoli and radish;

dressed it with the blood of olive and grape.

 

The boundaries are not clear.

This morning the dog dug a nest of mice

out of long grass, swallowed the babies

like little pink pills.  They slid easy

down her throat: wriggling embryos

dissolving in her stomach,

becoming dog.

I commend them to their god.

 

And there was a time I read an article

about a wildlife biologist summoned

to investigate the death of a woman

by mountain lion.  It happens more often

than you’d think.  He tracked the beast,

found its cache in a litter of leaves.

He said, “I hate to tell you, but what was left

looked an awful lot like meat.”

 

 

Grolier Poetry Prize Runner-up, 2001

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