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Poem: Wild Food

January 8, 2019

As the soft round vowels of October

are pricked and poked out of the way

by the sharp points of Ns and Vs

you bring another dinner.

I light candles, put out plates.

Tonight it might be pheasant

from a South Dakota cornfield

or walleye pulled through a hole in the ice.

You hunt the seasons through the year.

I open wine I bought at a shop near the mall.

We come together from opposite ends of the table

the way letters come together to make words,

separate, change position and meaning,

until food is gone, words are gone,

candles burn down and sputter out.

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