May I eat this tender chop,
carved from the lamb by the butcher
who follows at only a step?
May I eat this ear of corn, these teeth
sown in the furrow that follows the plough—this
crop that springs point first
disturbing the crumbling ground?
Confused though we are by this crushing stone, which
must have been thrown by one of us
—hollow clanging armour gleaming—hot butter
smiles along the long rows,
salted. we meet. here. teeth to teeth.
Finally,
may I
eat—May I
breathe—this
Dust—your
philosophy?
© Dan Goorevitch 1999, 2004
About Me
- Dan Goorevitch
- There is no activity more noble, more vital, more necessary than wrestling with one's self. That is what poetry is for me. Like Jacob wrestling with himself, the prize is the blessing of life. Woman is the crown which makes man king. Please read my poem "Sheep Shearing." It's the key.
