The Cold

The virus traveled to her blood
after her fingertips brushed the hem

of his coat, he was leaving again
in the middle of the night, the baby

crying, the heat turned off a week ago –
she had collected matches, tried

to empty the throat of the fireplace,
tried to take out the bricks blocking

the chimney with her sewing scissors
and a butter knife so she could pile

a chair or two, perhaps some of his
books, into the fat black mouth
unhinging its jaw like a cartoon snake.

Finally, a new poem in the dry desert of nonpoetry

Learn the Language of Your Meat


Go into the weeds. Find the cow
lying there, open her mouth.

Take out her small voice, stuff
her whispers in your pocket.

Slap her hollowed-out rump
with the flat of your palm,

slap until the dust flies, until
she rises. Lay in the crushed

circle of grass. Put your ear
to the earth, hear the bees

burrowing there. Make your lips
form those shapes, your

tongue an engine of blood
revving against your teeth.