Poetry Paté

Poems are truffles
uprooted by the sow
who squeals at you
before she devours her find.
It is your job
to rescue each truffle
before it is eaten.
Let no one conceit
this idea into
soils of soul
or gardens of the mind.
There is no dewy bouquet
in poem-making.
It is all shovel
and pick and fingernail dirt.

The goose liver, too, is a poem,
found and fattened by force,
handfuls of barely corn
pushed past her perfect beak
before the bulk rate rubber band
is stretched into place
around her swollen throat,
a ritual without song
as the swan would have it.

The wafer now waits
with its foreign spread.
Do not grimace
when you taste
what you have done.
You will only ask for more.
You will reach again to rescue
the bloated bird,
the baited sow
before they swallow
what they cannot eat.


© Charles Ghigna

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