Summer 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 1995 |

Field Dressing

No one ever forgets that ripe maggot smell of entrails laid on your fingers, the blood-steam rising to cling like weightless, sleet-bright seeds. But here earth hides its usual electric, small heart, lungs, liver refusing the stiffened host whose eye, stunned, deflates like the broken air sac of the sister fucked under flies at a foreign wall.No crop's touch and no planet-like gold pellets. The bony foot, one spur, belies practiced heat in your mistress, eating, her nipples like wing-nubs. Remember your hooked nail worming where quail calls start, the leached childhood field you longed to hunt? Soft grass for bed, creamed skin, scented sweet cake.

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No one ever forgets that ripe maggot smell of entrails laid on your fingers, the blood-steam rising to cling like weightless, sleet-bright seeds. But here earth hides its usual electric, […]

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