It was the truck stop
food that did it I think. Deep
fried green tomatoes once crispy
now soggy with sweat and bacon drippings.
I prefer fresh food but have no stomach
for slaughter /skinning/ buckets of blood. Boil
a chicken and pluck its feathers that
smell will never leave you.
Don’t imagine the water is cleaner
on a farm, the inhabitants innocent
or enlightened. Like me they are
looking for something to eat every day.
I have my car/ cash/ an eye
for bargains. They have the wisdom of
grandmothers who told them how long
to cook the flesh/ how straight/ how sharp
the knife must be.
Beth Gordon is a poet who lives in St. Louis, Missouri. She is the lucky mother of three creative human beings, Matt, Alex and Elise, who fill her world with art and music.
Header Image: Creative Commons, photo by Jeff Turner, modified.
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