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About this poet

David Welch is the author of Everyone Who Is Dead (Spork Press, 2018) and It Is Such a Good Thing to Be in Love with You (GreenTower Press, 2015). He lives in Chicago.

Our Chef Is Delicious

                                       When we first found him,
he was a poor creature who couldn't handle a paring knife,
             but that year in Tuscany did him well.

                                       He returned a devout palate.

A man of peculiar desire.
             Please note, he must be garnished with mint;

                                      chop finely, so, when rare, the meat bathes
                                      the cut leaf.

It was a long day when our chef committed himself
             to the fineries of flesh—

                                      the first drop of blood crowned the shaved
                                      Parmesan;

the bouillabaisse thickened.
             Loving the body for the body alone is bitter.

                                      He knew this, yes. He always thought parsley

the sprig of amateurs. At high temperatures
             his flesh will emit a faint, distinguished odor,

                                      but this is common

for roasts of his nature. Add Chianti just after the boil.
             That his lips were cracked with salt is no cause for concern—

                                      thirst is

the first measure of longing.
             Open this. Breathe a short while before we eat.

Copyright © 2007 by David Welch. “Our Chef Is Delicious” originally appeared in Pleiades. Used with permission of the author.

 

Copyright © 2007 by David Welch. “Our Chef Is Delicious” originally appeared in Pleiades. Used with permission of the author.

 

David Welch

David Welch is the author of Everyone Who Is Dead (Spork Press, 2018) and It Is Such a Good Thing to Be in Love with You (GreenTower Press, 2015). He lives in Chicago.

by this poet

poem

The apple was not an apple when the rains came
The grave spurned the groundskeeper’s shovel when the rains came

No sacrament    no scripture        There were no reservoirs
save an ark beneath the steeple when the rains came

First the river wouldn’t fill

poem

                              —Heather Christle

You meet someone and inside of them
you know there swells
a small country brimming
with steel and beasts of labor.
You love the country
and so you fear it.
Its flora fascinates you.
You wish to visit, though
you worry you

poem

This wasn’t the first time or the last,
wasn’t the first time we thought of stone or the sparked and flushed light.

The flood was an afterthought of the river and the river of a greater crime.

This was when names arrived through a polish