Poetry
Oberg, Robert J
Robert J. Oberg Rooster And when we return from the garden's anguish or vision doesn't the rooster's crown look different against the snatched ground and chicken I'ence ol'lhe pit. razors of...
...the body sated...
...razors of our weakness wedged in its lalons, glutinous lalons that w ill be handed o\er wiih the neck...
...severed beneath the axe ol" the man who led ii...
...10 eal the hacked limbs uuhastily...
...Will we stay awake when the hour i> come...
...Will we ever say yes...
...the bones broken...
...as we will bleed, feed on our death...
...sing our natures beneath death's folding wing, accepting the rooster's red comb...
...the blood dripping from our mouths...
...knives and forks washed, ealen as if saying if only it would bleed...
...do not know how...
...Will we reniember the fight when ihe neck, feel and entrails .simmer on the mo\ e. and the breast, halved, with garlic and crushed pepper...
...taste our own limbs that loo will be hacked, that loo will cry out I do noi know the num...
...the nines and excrement scratched into earth along the paths of laying hens...
...to overcome desire's longing for more flesh pricked from ihe carving block...
...roasts...
...Will we eat ouk what the spirit demands not lor ihe sensuous melding of llesh...
...our feel clinching the perch...
...do not know love...
Vol. 121 • March 1994 • No. 5
