Feast

Here's another poem..............

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Papaw brought home a miniature rocking chair

and sat it in the center of the old oak table

my parents bought for themselves after they got married in ’63. 

Countless turkeys, hams, and hogs’ heads had rested there over the years;

eager elbows commanded by carnivorous mouths

had long ago worn away the varnish along the outer edge. 

Now that rocking chair sat mid-table,

an empty platter awaiting a fresh carcass.

My father, I think, lifted my toddler body up and sat me down,

the wooden blades of the ceiling fan whirring just inches above my head

and 400 collective incandescent watts beaming like heat lamps on the part in my hair. 

Their hungry eyes scanned for the tenderest cut. 

My mother pulled an Old Hickory knife from the wall and carved a flank. 

I tasted foreign to them, like parchment and silverfish, so they spat me out

and put what was left of me in a Ball jar.

“Perhaps she’ll sweeten with age.”