The Baste Land
For Zaccaria Fulton
il più grande Turchia.
I. The Broiling of the Dead
Broil is the cruelest setting, breeding
Dryness out of the dead bird, mixing
Convection and direct heat, stirring
Dull flavor with sinewy bites.
Winter kept us hungry, coating
Ribs with forgetful snow-cones, feeding
A little life with freeze-dried burgers.
Summer surprised us, coming for the long-starved belly
With a shower of grain; we shopped at the Safeway,
And went into the sunlight, into the Hunting Garden
and sipped broth, and clucked for an hour.
Gobble gobble, gobble gobble gobble, gobble gobble.
And when we were chicks, staying under the porch at Duke’s,
A farmer, he chopped off our heads,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, GET BACK HERE. And back I got.
In the oven, there you feel cooked.
I roast, most of the night, and go south after dinner.
What are the tastes that clutch, and would ranch dressing go
with this stony meat? Meal of man,
You cannot talk, or think, for you are only
A heap of cooked appendages, in the oven heat,
And the seasonings give no flavor, the rosemary no relief,
And the continual basting no sign of moisture. Only
There is flavor inside this dark meat,
(Come in and try a bite of this dark meat),
And I will show you something delicious from either
Your aroma at start trailing behind you
Or your aroma at evening radiating right off you;
I will show you fear in a handful of scraps.
Ich liebe die Türkei!
Die Türkei ist so lecker!
Auch ich glaube,
die Türkei ist gut für Sie.
“You gave me cranberry sauce first a year ago;
“They called me the cranberry-sauce girl.”
—Yet, when we came back late, from the children’s table,
Your mouth stained, your stomach distended, I could not
Eat, and my appetite failed, I was neither
hungry nor full, and I tasted nothing,
Reaching for the pain in my gut, the disquiet.
Ich glaube, dass ich viel zu viel gegessen.
Madame Sosostris, famous culinarian,
Prefers her food cold, nevertheless
Is known to be wise with bird and turnips,
With a wicked set of tartars. Here, said she,
Is your carving, the twisted Drumstick Leg,
(Those are pearls of juice that coat the thighs. Look!)
Here is Breast meat, the Lady of the Bird,
The bird of family dinners.
Here is the sister with three kids, and outside her Wheels,
And here is the one-eyed uncle, and his finger,
Which is straight, is something he extends without tact,
Which I am offended to see. I do not find
it funny. Fear death by frowning.
I see crowds of relatives, sitting round in a ring.
Thank you. If you hear from the Mrs. on the phone,
Tell her I bring the Jell-o mold myself:
One must do everything these days.
Unreal sitting,
Near the brown skin of wintery meat,
A mouth loaded with the undone fridge, so many,
I had almost choked to death swallowing so many.
Belches, loud and frequent, were exhaled,
And each man unfixed his belted jeans.
Fluttering eyelids up and down on friend William’s face,
Head dipping toward the wooly cloth and print of flowers
With a too-fed groan at the final call for ninths.
Then I saw my nephew, and stopped him, crying, “Benton!
“You who tried to eat chips in the foyer!
“That junkfood you grabbed without fear or pardon
“Has it begun to rumble? Will you burst right here?
“Or has the onslaught of turkey disturbed your head?
“Oh keep the Dog close Bent, that’s friend to men,
“To sneak him kale under the table again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon invité—mon diner!”
