I Eat Poetry

   






    Self-Portrait with the Smithfield ham we had to cut on the bandsaw
    by Hayden Saunier

    Mother, for once, it wasn’t your fault.
    You always said you can’t soak hams
    long enough and one full day and night
    seemed adequate, but we gave it two,
    scrubbed mold, rind, salt away, changed
    the water, tucked it like a baby in its bath;
    another day, rinsed, patted dry, made ready.
    Butter and brown sugar coated all our hands.
    Let’s face it; it was ancient, not just aged.
    The woman at the ham shack must have seen
    my husband’s Pennsylvania plates and figured
    what the hell, he won’t be coming back.
    Or it was just bad luck. But wasn’t
    our discussion on life with Lewis and Clark
    educational for the children? Ham jerky!
    Ham shoelaces! Ham-flavored chewing gum
    to last a winter portage through the Bitterroots!
    Oh, we were jolly then, those spots still undiscovered
    on your lungs. Yes, my Yankee husband
    sliced it on the band saw but so would any man
    faced with that ham who had a power tool in reach.
    That was Easter. It’s November now.
    You’re dead and I am making black bean soup,
    beginning with a frozen cut of that disaster
    sizzling in a taste of olive oil. No other
    seasoning is needed for this winter’s portage,
    Mother, just my store of crosscut sections:
    meat and marrow, sugar, grease and bone.