Sunday, February 16, 2014

Bone (Poem 321)

Although he buried it raw 
hours ago, Dog looks at 
me with pity--I've forgotten, 
and will surely demur. 
He sits in front of the oven,
where a rather large
piece of cow is 
slowly roasting to a 
heart-breaking tenderness. 
You buried it, remember?
Looking down, I encounter 
a pitying pair of 
dark, doleful eyes. 
Of course, he will relish 
my gasp when, after
waiting all winter for 
the bone to cure, 
he pulls what looks like
a human femur--marbled 
with brown and oozing 
marrow--from the mud. 

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six