My Body, This Aging Cheese

My body, this aging cheese,
affronts them like a mold, as though
beneath my burred rind
I were not still another woman’s
cream-skinned daughter, tending
to her torn petticoat.

This curdled lap,
these clotted breasts slough
their tuts and rancid glances.
If our intent had been a pose, I’d have
sat this unmade bed like a throne.

Instead, I ripen and mend. And if
they miss the grace even I can see
of thimble needling thread from one stitch
to the next, they miss, too,
that flavor’s in the fat, and that,
in full time, like sin
generations removed from the original,
they will lick me all over for the salt.

First published in The MacGuffin as winner of the 16th National Poet Hunt. Subsequently published in Song of the Owashtanong, David Cope, Editor

Dominion

You swam out of the cattails into the center of the photo
I was taking of my cat, who had joined
the dog and me on our stroll
—and already you see how I am—my cat, pfff,
as if— —my cat
who had joined us on our stroll out into the fields
past your slough. And there you were
in the center of the photo, as much
gift as handshake, muskrat arrowing
through the water right toward me
with that bit of stuff for bedding in your mouth, engineering
ripples either side of you like
extravagant wings—before landing
at slough’s edge to renovate
that tumble of rotting logs
into your lodge. This captured moment
was all I needed to think of you
as mine, and I showed you off
to friends with the wonder
of unearned trust. Didn’t I.

Leave it to the terrier: A later stroll
and at the tumble of logs at slough’s edge a spree
seizes her, and she
—imagine her shopping the jumble sales,
drilling through the scatter of bras and cards of clip-on
earrings, all grab and elbow—
till at some turn I miss, this spree of hers turns
savage, and this dog of mine
—this dog who knows bed
where I know bed—
she savages your den from the top
down till she all but disappears,
and then quick-as-a-gasp she
seizes you by the spine in such a savage

—well, I—
I have no words.

What’s that old saying? If I love something, I should
let it go; and if it comes back
—something.
I don’t remember.

You might say twice I
let you go, and now your face
—head of an arrow—
your face comes back to me and comes
again. It took my foot four tries
to override your broken fight and
toe you into a muck tub after the dog
carried you off. And when I carried you back
to the yard of your den at slough’s edge
and tipped you out
—Who doesn’t want to die at home?
—Is that more of the same? Am I
still doing it?—
you thrust yourself forward half
a broken step and I
—I carried the empty muck tub
back to my own yard, my dog,
my savage red and broken sanctimony.

Originally published in Ninth Letter