What happens with a writing exercise gone wrong
So I’m rooting though piles of old files (figuratively–I was searching through folders that somehow got moved onto this computer) and I come across this gem of a poem. It was written as part of a challenge in my second semester Form and Theory class. We had to write a poem about a subject we wouldn’t normally write about–food, for instance. This is what came out. And if you think this is bad, wait until I post the sestina about the marijuana eating goat, or the one called “Pukey the Armadillo.”
Sonnet to Sausage
(This is the nugget, the meaning you must
glean from this poem. You should interpret
it only this way, for there is just
one way, that I, your poet really meant
for you to read it.) I hate kielbasa,
the greasy juiciness of it; I hate
the feel of teeth that pop the sausage
casing to squeeze out the ground pig meat,
the leftover chunks that even butchers
figure can’t be sold without a disguise,
some skin or otherness. On pictures
of pigs sectioned off by dotted lines
into hamhocks, pork loins, bacon and chops,
there’s never one called sausage, no kielbasa.
Sad thing is, I really don’t hate sausage. I love it, in fact. I just don’t eat it much anymore unless it’s imported, because I don’t trust the US meat production system. Fortunately, I live near an Irish bar that imports Irish bangers and Irish bacon, so I can still get pork on occasion.
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