Country Feast
I stood before a gate.
I didn’t know a thing.
I had no thought besides
the bitter blood
and reckoning.
I could go in, or not,
I stood apart and stared,
and banished further thinking,
and unthinking,
came up short.
I wanted to be a bird, of course,
at one time
and another
from what I can’t relate,
nor really need or want to.
Once in, my heart sickened with loss;
once in, I was all in;
my fattened fingers
slick and damp
with the sacrificial oils of new lamb.
How did you buy it,
and how much, I managed.
Not a country mile away, said my lord.
And shot right there, and licked and pointed —
bolt from the blue in the brain pan.
Its innards lolled
and we too lolled to type;
while it turned on the spit
and we lusted
and ogled,
