Economies
This must happen
after death: the gold
out of the teeth,
liver broiled instantly,
but the loins smoked and saved
for the long journey.
This must happen:
the heart, wrought solid,
kept for a grinding stone,
crescents of nails
filed clean for amulets.
What falls down
must fall down, but we take
what we need.
We try to use
all that’s left.
Sinew for harp strings,
scrimshaw from the long bones,
retina caged
and set singing.
by Monica Raymond
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Categories: Economy
So sharp and lean. I love this poem.
This is as good as it gets for the genre, so to speak — I’m thinking of poems by Charles Simic, for example. Wonderful writing. Oriana