every animal is broken differently
cook it slow, the butcher says, like jazz or country
western—doesn’t matter
something you can dance to—something you can master
like chief cook and bottle-washer, recognize
that parrot is a noun, that parrot is a table manner
that you always start with definition, recognize
the cuts as hangers flap meat Denver steaks coulotte, dress
the panic, snorting, screaming, painted red to mark the end
is where we end, is where we’re going, cook
it so as not to bitter 18 years behind the counter
flesh monger
hell is shoveling ground, weighing slaughter
… even the dog
doesn’t want to come back anymore.
bear hypothesis
They’re napping in daybeds, crawling into basements in Boston, Yonkers,
rearing up on hind legs every garbage night to scrounge for scraps.
Mauling plastic clams. Licking burger wrappers
long after Darwin guessed that walking on two feet freed the hands for gathering
(shorter toes, high arch ambling, big heel and stiff mid-foot, navigating)—
they’re barely hibernating, barely tripping over shrubs in hickory forests, foraging
in swamps. Wading through the shallows, between scattered resources.
No pissing in the tall grass. They’ve got their paw-prints on the game box.
aftermasks, or in a supermarket on a lonely planet
you know who you are, over there, in front of the dairy, peering into glass, reciting all the choices. almond, soy or oat, skim or lactose free—too many, you insist, though no one listens, no one answers, no one risks dialogue that oversteps, gets too friendly. or later, by the eggs, as far as you can tell there’s no difference, brown or white, it’s just the price, you say to no one in particular, seeking what? proof that you were here? then Allie, is that you? and even though Allie’s not your name, you turn because you always turn when someone calls out unexpectedly, especially when it’s quiet in the bread aisle with people very serious these days about their sourdough and naan. you look like Allie from behind, he says, and tells you that he once played at a concert for the president (though it really wasn’t worth it when they took apart his sax). he says he might have concerts in his driveway now (an invitation?), because his wife can’t get up out of bed with diabetes hammer toe and they don’t go out much these days but stay inside and watch days of our lives. you’re dismayed (a not-so-subtle hint? an indiscretion?). then, in checkout, as you place the plastic stick between your groceries and his, the man behind you asks, dinner for the family? his cagey way of asking if you’re single (a mark? a rape victim?), before he headlines news, the vagaries of weather. you grab the crispy fried and hurry to the exit, get into your car, drive back to your little dim apartment, where you sit at the computer, eat the grease you know will kill you, scan headlines, browse catastrophes, and you’re sad that you’re not Allie—not even once.
Kathleen Hellen’s three collections include Meet Me at the Bottom, The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, and Umberto’s Night, which won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House. She has two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento. Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, her work has appeared widely in such journals as Arts & Letters, Colorado Review, Drunken Boat, Massachusetts Review, New Letters, North American Review, Poetry Northwest, and West Branch, among others. Hellen’s awards include prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review.
Photo: Kate Russell, travelandleisure.com
Check out HFR’s book catalog, publicity list, submission manager, and buy merch from our Spring store. Follow us on Instagram and YouTube. Disclosure: HFR is an affiliate of Bookshop.org and we will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. Sales from Bookshop.org help support independent bookstores and small presses.
Heavy Feather Review 