Always I am taking the wounded from the mouth of the hungry,
the wet fur of the leveret from the jaws of the hound. Or I am the one
with the sledgehammer, the poisoned steak that I slip over the fence
after every authority refused to quarantine the beast. I have to protect
my own, but the world assigns too many to me, says
they are each my own, the lobsters in the tank at the market,
the sparrows in the neighbor’s trap, the massive tawniness
at the edge of the field at dusk. I love the world that wants to eat me,
and I crave to devour it, too — smear my face with butter and grease,
talk into the night about meals I’ve had. I am the paralyzed rescuer,
watching the nest mown over, waving from the porch
as the men head off with their long guns. If I have been sent here
for some task, I have blundered, I have failed.
I couldn’t find the trap door, the men with the proper authority.
Yet I rest my feet in the stream and it washes me anyway, and birds
nest in my eaves. I am sorry. I was ill equipped. I can’t even tell you
I will do better, but I will collect the bones, I will stand at the roadside
and say your names, Porcupine, Mule Deer, Wildcat. I will take
what lasts longest, the jaw bone set with jewels,
let it bleach in the white heat. I will say I knew you,
that I found it by Salt Creek, or in the Big Horns. I will show
the architecture of your mouth to children. I will let them run their
fingertips, whorled with identity, over your marvelous teeth.
This poem first appeared in Eleventh Muse and Best Poets (2007).
—
Kelly Madigan is a poet and essayist living in the Loess Hills of western Iowa. She has received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Distinguished Artist Award from the Nebraska Arts Council. Her work has appeared in 32 Poems, Terrain.org, Prairie Schooner, Flyway and Calyx. Her books include The Edge of Known Things (SFASU Press) and Getting Sober (McGraw-Hill).
