Cucumber SaladBy Michael Pearce
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What hath God wrought—chip or ballad?
The horse does not eat cucumber salad.
Watson, come here! I want to see you!
See you I will, in hi-def color,
see you I won’t, nor skin nor blood,
the horse does not, repeat does not
eat lumen pixel volt or watt,
dots or dashes, ones or naughts--
don’t blame God for what you’ve wrought.
Ring a bell, the nag will drool;
ring it twice, she’ll roll the dice
from here to Copenhagen; thrice,
and she’ll say nay to oats and hay--
a Pavlov daemon trapped inside
her digi-wonky word-bound hide.
Is all that God hath wrought for naught?
What God hath rent shall ne’er be whole
nor tree nor brook nor book nor soul.
Come here now, I want to know
if love of quick and shiny new
will trump the heft of I love you.
I want to see you—should I settle
for a ghost wrought by a kettle
whistling digits, sculpting smoke
into an insubstantial host?
I would wager God does not
give a rip for fleshless rot.
Watson be clear: a horse prefers
the rough salad of what God wrought
to the slick of what you bought.
Feed it oats, the horse will trot,
feed it ones or naughts or words
you’ll mourn the heft the smell of turds.
The horse does not eat cucumber salad.
Watson, come here! I want to see you!
See you I will, in hi-def color,
see you I won’t, nor skin nor blood,
the horse does not, repeat does not
eat lumen pixel volt or watt,
dots or dashes, ones or naughts--
don’t blame God for what you’ve wrought.
Ring a bell, the nag will drool;
ring it twice, she’ll roll the dice
from here to Copenhagen; thrice,
and she’ll say nay to oats and hay--
a Pavlov daemon trapped inside
her digi-wonky word-bound hide.
Is all that God hath wrought for naught?
What God hath rent shall ne’er be whole
nor tree nor brook nor book nor soul.
Come here now, I want to know
if love of quick and shiny new
will trump the heft of I love you.
I want to see you—should I settle
for a ghost wrought by a kettle
whistling digits, sculpting smoke
into an insubstantial host?
I would wager God does not
give a rip for fleshless rot.
Watson be clear: a horse prefers
the rough salad of what God wrought
to the slick of what you bought.
Feed it oats, the horse will trot,
feed it ones or naughts or words
you’ll mourn the heft the smell of turds.
Michael Pearce’s poems have appeared in The Threepenny Review, The Yale Review, The Sun, Spillway, The Gettysburg Review, and elsewhere, and have won several national prizes (New Ohio Review, Oberon, Dogwood, and others). His collection of poems, Santa Lucia by Starlight, won the Brighthorse Prize and was published by Brighthorse Books in 2023. He lives in Oakland, California, and plays saxophone in the Bay Area band Highwater Blues.