What was it I was hungry about. Hunger, it is one
Of the several contraptions I can turn on the off-button to at will.  
Yes, yes, of course it is an "Art." Of course I will not be here
Long, not the way the percentages are going now.  
He might have been
                                     Half-beautiful in a certain optic nerve
Of light, but legible only at particular  
                                     Less snowy distances. I was fixed on
The poplar and the dread.  The night was lung-colored
And livid still—he would have my way
                                     With me. In this district of late
                                     Last light, indicated by the hour of
The beauty of his neck, his face Arabian in contour
Like a Percheron grazing in his dome of grass,
If there is a god, he is not done
Yet, as if continuing to manhandle the still lives of
The confederate dead this far north, this time of year, each
Just a ghostly reason now. There are reasons:  One,
Soon the wind will blow Pentecostal with the power of group prayer.
Two: the right to bear arms. Three: you did not find my empathy
Supernatural, at the very least.  
—Have you any ideas that are new?
I was fixed on the scythe and the harlequin, on the priggish
Butcher as he cuts the tender loin and
When I saw this spectacle, I wanted to live for a moment for
A moment.  However inelegant it was,
It was what it might have been to be alive, but tenderly.
                                     One thing. One thing. One thing:  
              Tell me there is
              A meadow, afterward.
Copyright © 2011 by Lucie Brock-Broido. Used with permission of the author.

Poems by This Author

After the Grand Perhaps by Lucie Brock-Broido
After vespers, after the first snow
Carrowmore by Lucie Brock-Broido
All about Carrowmore the lambs
Did Not Come Back by Lucie Brock-Broido
In the roan hour between then & then again, the now, in the Babel
Domestic Mysticism by Lucie Brock-Broido
In thrice 10,000 seasons, I will come back to this world
Dove, Interrupted by Lucie Brock-Broido
Donít do that when you are dead like this, I said,
How Can It Be I Am No Longer I by Lucie Brock-Broido
Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Periodic Table of Ethereal Elements by Lucie Brock-Broido
Real Life by Lucie Brock-Broido
Soon the electrical wires will grow heavy under the snow.

Further Reading

Related Poems
An Obscure Meadow Lures Me
by José Lezama Lima
Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow
by Robert Duncan
in the meadow magenta
by Cynthia Hogue