Drisheen, and: Chokecherry

Drisheen

Call it a sheep, call it a cow, serve itwith raisins and a little salt. Inflate

the casing with a forearm, yours oryour mother's, blend one serum

with another, commingle withthe animals. The stuff inside us

has a residue, something that sticksto the filter-rib, the plane tickets

and palm trees, the champagnein the bony flute.

Ask your mother who still,one year later, is on the steroids,

still has that cough. Boil pudding.Get angry. Slaughter collected

in an earth-bucket, a hair floatingon the top. You'll think it's horse,

but you'll be wrong. Here, we are notpermitted to ride what we eat.

Hold her hand, watch hershiver beneath the blankets. Remember

the buttery white sauce and plentyof pepper. This is common,

our tradition, our slow comingto the table, hands clean, blood-

by-blood.

Chokecherry

Soup itwith lemon zest, cassia,

a little cornflour.

Feed itto your daughter as punishment—

she cried today

when you brushed the knotsfrom her hair,

she brought home a boy

who unslung one overallfrom his left shoulder

forcing his clavicle

into your living room—the oneyou work the nightshift for.

Allow her mouth

to know fierceand voice that can be

ghost or television,

Grandpa or Geronimo. Both usedthese fruits in pemmican,

preserved dried meat together

our ancestors and our offspring.The mouth knows

these wooden teeth, a tongue

so furred with astringencythat the roof cleaves, the throat

warhorse with swallowing these red Bullies.

They say they are as wildas indigenous, but we all know

what was turned into jelly—

the love formula of doctors who deliverand nurses who clean us up.

Spoon itover your weak liver

and celebrate

its shrinking, this cherry heartmade of smoke

keeps us alive by burning.