qarrtsiluni

What animal gave me its ear
last night, loved me enough
to lick it deep into the hinge
of my jaw? My fingers found it,
softly furred at the rim,
angled below my right temple.

The ear was black inside, smelled
of cinnamon and cloves, opened
into a rocky den the wind scoured
as we slept, the beast and I,
on some mountainside.

Awake now, I trace where
the ear was grafted to my head,
search the mirror. Morning
rustles the cottonwood leaves
outside my window, and I remember
the black rattle that came
before the ear, the gourd
I have been running from,
its furred wings still
on the table, its sharp face
waiting to sing.

by Penny Harter

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That summer at the turkey farm,
the Maine woods tinder dry,
dust kicked up around our tent
in the unrelenting heat.

Each morning we walked
down to the lake, following
the daily retreat of water
from the shore of builder’s sand,
the wet pulling back like lips
from gums, gums from teeth.

And we walked into it,
further and further
those ten long days,
feet fighting slimy weeds,
torsos sinking in a lake
so shallow with its own decay
our bodies stank.

That summer at the turkey farm
we did not touch each other,
because of the heat, the dust,
the turkeys’ thirsty gobbling
through the dark.

by Penny Harter

Download the MP3

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