{"id":54,"date":"2012-08-29T11:21:22","date_gmt":"2012-08-29T11:21:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/?page_id=54"},"modified":"2013-08-03T02:44:30","modified_gmt":"2013-08-03T02:44:30","slug":"poetry-2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/?page_id=54","title":{"rendered":"Poetry"},"content":{"rendered":"

Leaving Mulberry Street<\/strong><\/em>
\n(New York, 1943)<\/em><\/p>\n

When your father found the dead man
\nswinging in the walk-in\u2013meat hook gored
\nthrough muscle, slight tenting at his
\nshirtfront, a coagulated bloom pressed
\nto breast pocket\u2013you were maybe eight, baby
\ncurls shorn, old enough to have witnessed
\nan endless procession of pigs\u2019 heads
\ncleaved, calves\u2019 tongues sliced, young enough
\nto marvel at the slick iridescent pillows of liver,
\nneatly wrapped in wax sheets by his hard hands. <\/p>\n

Do you recall the chickens, Sonny, temporary
\npets, how you and Little Davy played
\npuppets with their lopped-off feet, how
\nyou savored the treat of sweet marrow
\nsucked from warm bones? Having watched
\nthe ink spill from pierced sheep\u2019s eyes,
\nwhy would you be daunted by some stiff\u2019s
\nmilked-over orbs, viscous with death <\/p>\n

and the freezer\u2019s chill? At eight, nightmaring
\nover tales of your family\u2019s escape from
\nMulberry (the spinning corpse\/dropped
\ncleaver\/crammed trunk\/daylight flight), I shrink
\nfrom the slap of greasy lips as you gnaw hogs\u2019
\nknuckles, incisors grinding through gristle.<\/p>\n

First appeared in Freshwater, 2013<\/em>.
\n_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

Stuffed Bells<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

He\u2019d watch her kneading
\nlumps of meat, raw egg
\nand rice, long hands stripped
\nof gold, pink chuckshreds
\ncaught beneath her nails.
\nThe jade bells would stand,
\nwax bowls packed\u2014a fistful
\nper\u2014fingerclefts
\nmolding vertebrae
\nalong curving spines.
\nIn the stove, they\u2019d sizz,
\nfoil-shrouded, as she
\nspooned hot broth over
\ntheir skulls. Darkening
\nto avocado,
\nlike the range-hood, their
\ncharred membranes, slipping,
\nliquefied. Below,
\nred coils would flicker,
\nas the peppers bled,
\nher Pyrex filling
\nwith bitter juice.<\/p>\n

First appeared in Freshwater, 2012<\/em>.
\n_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

Communion<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

It is nothing like the sacred wafer,
\nthis oblong of gauze and tape. But my mind
\nmetaphors as I strip back adhesive.
\nHis flesh, plump as a baby\u2019s fist, submits,
\nlifts, drops back. Yellow-cast, the skin seems to
\npulse, expand. Tracing the edge where pigments
\nbleed\u2014workman\u2019s tan to sub-bandage pallor\u2014
\nI count the sutures, their meticulous
\nmarch, and lift the tube worming from his back.
\nLatex spirals to his waistband, ending
\nin a picnic cooler spigot. Sliding
\nnotched cotton beneath the tube, I recoil
\nit, press fingers to my father\u2019s skin, close
\nthe circle, re-swaddling it in fresh gauze.<\/p>\n

First appeared in Freshwater, 2011<\/em>.
\n_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

Morning\u2014Jokibu, Sierra Leone <\/em><\/strong>
\nfor my student, Mohamed <\/em><\/p>\n

The calls of pan bird, of rice bird have returned,
\nbut where is the song of our mothers?<\/p>\n

Shreds of canvas twist in searing wind;
\nour house burst wide, a rotted gourd.<\/p>\n

In the dust, a man clenches crimson hibiscus against
\nhis chest. What child is dying in his arms?<\/p>\n

My uncle\u2019s palms weep from digging\u2014
\ntwo hands to bury so many.<\/p>\n

I cry to my sister, Sia, my heart!<\/em>
\nBut only the pan bird replies.<\/p>\n

First appeared in the July, 2007 issue of the online poetry journal, Pirene’s Fountain<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Leaving Mulberry Street (New York, 1943) When your father found the dead man swinging in the walk-in\u2013meat hook gored through muscle, slight tenting at his shirtfront, a coagulated bloom pressed to breast pocket\u2013you were maybe eight, baby curls shorn, old enough to have witnessed an endless procession of pigs\u2019 heads cleaved, calves\u2019 tongues sliced, young […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/54"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=54"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/54\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":277,"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/54\/revisions\/277"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/stevenparlato.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=54"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}