United States, (b. 1986)
The Body
- They split the hog down the middle.
- It was cold and raining, I remember
- the steam and the knife and the squeal and how
- they all left the body like a ghost.
- They lasted and lasted and the body shook
- in your hands. I was
- told this is sex my friend,
- be still.
- * * *
- Take care to roll it
- like a swollen log
- pushed up from the belly
- of the river. Gently turning
- it over, take note of the red
- ants harvesting what is left
- beneath the bark.
- Be gentle. It might all just fall apart at your touch.
- * * *
- But I know little of the shape of a breast,
- perhaps that it curves like a spoon on the tongue.
- Your mother had one breast.
- I touched it
- once. It was a dare
- and I was promised
- it was the only way
- to become a man.
- No one thought to call the police.
- They ran when she began coughing
- up blood. I opened her shirt,
- pushed on her nipple like an alarm.
- * * *
- It was the time
- your sister danced up
- and down the aisles in church.
- She was possessed
- by some ghost,
- a beast built like your father.
- We sang.
- There was dinner:
- white bread and someone’s blood.
- They dipped her in the water
- and your father said she was clean.
About the Poet:
Dexter L. Booth, United States, (b. 1986), is a poet, editor and educator. Booth is the author of the poetry collections Abracadabra, Sunshine, and Scratching the Ghost, which won the 2012 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, and the chapbook Rhapsody.
His poems have been included in the anthologies The Best American Poetry 2015, The Burden of Light: Poems on Illness and Loss, The Golden Shovel Anthology and Furious Flower: Seeding the Future of African American Poetry.
Booth holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from USC and is a professor in the Ashland [Ohio] University MFA program. He is also a Contributing Editor for the literary journal Waxwing. [DES-01/22]