The Butcher’s Daughter

“They also serve who only stand and weigh,”
My butcher told his lively daughter once.
Instead of managing the scales, she’d say
She liked to shimmy, shake, and play the dunce.
She never made a secret of her vices,
Which were many: boning tiny smelt,
Imbibing spirits and frozen fruit ices,
Making puppets out of yellow felt.
One morning we saw how the butcher wept
When she put on a puppet show with fish
Instead of meat. Oh, she was so adept
The audience was cowed, and my one wish,
When I beheld the butcher’s daughter’s show,
Was that her hands would find me, strong and slow.

The Subject of the Discussion

Just listen, chums: I wasn’t arguing,
I simply mentioned to my spirit guide
That I had wanted to be notified
Before the Flood. I said, “Give me a ring,”
But Raven fled. That bastard, on the wing
Above the waves, did that annoying glide
Past my outstretched arms. “I’ll be by your side,”
He promised, several times. The bastard lied:
He’s gone now. And you wanted me to sing?

He claimed the only Trickster is the Crow,
But I’ve been tricked by every kind of beast,
And now the Flood is coming, from the east
(The Fire is in the north, where it will go
A mystery, and in the west there’s Snow).
Just sit down, and apologize, at least.

In the Kitchen

I haven’t made it to the kitchen yet,
But I’ll be getting there before the crowd,
Before they all arrive here, bright and loud,
To eat like locusts. I have snares to set:
Two lovely bear traps and a big, strong net.
Once all that’s finished (having done me proud),
They’ll all be frightened and completely cowed,
And maybe I’ll have peace, so hard to get.

I don’t begrudge the nourishment. It’s fine
If they require a little bit of food,
Some vitamins and protein. I’m not rude,
I wasn’t trying to starve them. Let them dine,
But don’t let in the whole hungering line —
Well, not at once. And maybe wear a snood.

Between Before After (Sonnet 800)

It’s not merely a numbers game, and yet
It is: we count up syllables, each line,
Each iamb, trochee, spondee, how the spine
Is in the form — it is the form. Forget
Nothing. Remember how each word is set
Between, before, or after, serves as twine
To tie loose ends together, serpentine
Knots and regrets. We understand regret.

There are eight hundred sonnets, counting this,
Eight hundred ways to say, or not to say,
Those thoughts arriving in some disarray
But ending in a functional armistice
Between before and after, with a kiss,
Both keeping time, and keeping time at bay.