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.