Pantoum of the MeatBy Ouita Rogers
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Where things gather the meeting-meaning,
at sleep’s slim light line, a deep rosebloom
and gristle of raw meat, scrawl of tendon.
I taste as it ate me, swallowed me down
at sleep’s thin light line, a deep rosebloom
from my grandmother’s jewelry box:
I touch because it wrapped me around,
her melamine necklace of pace and nox.
In my grandmother’s jewelry box
starshine on the velvet black, a spiderweb’s
dustdry necklace; it glints and mocks
my dreams. I am eight years old. All my fibs
are spiderweb. Starlight filters into the black
stomach of that meat. Its digestive system
is dream. I am thirty years old. What I make
with my hands is its digestion. Not dream.
We stomach the meat. Fed, the procreative system
awakens at the Easter feast--
my mother’s hands bake tradition and dream,
“quem quaeritis?” they knead.
Awakening at the Easter feast
our appetites. My desire for you widens.
Whom do you seek? My need,
alongside breads, eggs and powdered sugar, limns
the appetite. Your desire for me widens.
My forme stands poised with a knife
alongside onions, tomatoes, fish and flesh, rends
bone from bone, scale from skin, to feed you.
My form stands poised with a knife
over the rosebloom of raw meat, scrawl of tendon,
bone, brains, liver, caul, skin to feed you,
my love, where things gather their meeting-meaning.
at sleep’s slim light line, a deep rosebloom
and gristle of raw meat, scrawl of tendon.
I taste as it ate me, swallowed me down
at sleep’s thin light line, a deep rosebloom
from my grandmother’s jewelry box:
I touch because it wrapped me around,
her melamine necklace of pace and nox.
In my grandmother’s jewelry box
starshine on the velvet black, a spiderweb’s
dustdry necklace; it glints and mocks
my dreams. I am eight years old. All my fibs
are spiderweb. Starlight filters into the black
stomach of that meat. Its digestive system
is dream. I am thirty years old. What I make
with my hands is its digestion. Not dream.
We stomach the meat. Fed, the procreative system
awakens at the Easter feast--
my mother’s hands bake tradition and dream,
“quem quaeritis?” they knead.
Awakening at the Easter feast
our appetites. My desire for you widens.
Whom do you seek? My need,
alongside breads, eggs and powdered sugar, limns
the appetite. Your desire for me widens.
My forme stands poised with a knife
alongside onions, tomatoes, fish and flesh, rends
bone from bone, scale from skin, to feed you.
My form stands poised with a knife
over the rosebloom of raw meat, scrawl of tendon,
bone, brains, liver, caul, skin to feed you,
my love, where things gather their meeting-meaning.
Ouita Rogers’s work often looks at the relationship between visual and verbal arts, and explores dreams, domesticity, social codes, and our psychological inheritances from generation to generation. She is currently studying counseling psychology and working with homeless populations and the medically underserved.