Bonebread Breakfast

Second hand cannibalism

No one is out here in the morning. First, 

it’s winter, and the gold-grained ground is 

knuckled up with frost. 

In the summer, sometimes

there’s a sun-brown boy,

pulling up weeds, and when you

pass him by, in a silver car, 

he pauses, looks, and waves, 

and the uprise of his calloused hand 

is a white flash against the tan 

uprise of his arm.  

But no one is out today. 

Grind the ground down to broken bits

with the sole of your shoe. 

Startle some geese, throw a stone. 

Dig around a bit, with a stick. 

There are bones in this field. 

Last spring, Sara Lee found

a jaw and brought it home,

brushed its teeth, and

kept it for show-and-tell.  

They say the grain grows good here, though.  

Hearty rye and farro, 

strong, thick wheat. They say  

bone-bread is firm and sweet. 

And once Sara’s mother sliced her finger

making dinner 

and blood got into the pan. 

“It’s the blood that makes 

the dish.” She winked. 

(And they say my neighbor 

Mister Lovett the baker

even stewed his own thumb

when he cut off his hand.)

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

your bio sounds like one of my poet friends talking about herself...she always demeans herself and her writing but she is a wonderful poet and doesn't know it.
you and she are very similar in structure and content...the cynical flavor works so well in hers and yours as well...
wonder how that thumb and blood tasted in a stew.
j.