[after “Loop,” by Jim Nutt]

wattles hanging like goose liver
under a hard-set chin, disapproving
she worries.

It’s puzzling.
Just what distasteful remnant
does she dangle here—between
suspicious thumb, reluctant

Eyes narrow in appraisal.
Slice of aged bacon?
Long-dried gherkin?
Discarded manhood?

Her bosom, full and ripe
as the rest of her is pickled,
swells with hunger
that would see him whole
once more.

-Carol Brockfield
The Hiss Quarterly, Summer 2008


About Carol Foreman Brockfield

Poet in Medford, Oregon
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