- advice from a Chinese cookbook

because the legs of the loon will flail unruly as too long spaghetti
over the edge of your pot even if you have a very large pot

because you will lose the lovely crispy golden brown
glow that happens when you roast

because when you roast the loon
the loon spirit is free
to go where loon spirits go it doesn’t mope around haunting you
unless you sever the wings the breasts the little webbed feet
toss them in a bubbling nest of carrots
and a bay leaf

because the relatives of the loon will find out
and they will fly low over your rooftop
dropping the skeletons of fish like hailstones and the neighbors
won’t stand for it
as the little bones lying around
are likely to lower property values

because the king doesn’t care for soup

because loon is deliciouser turned on a spit over hot coals
while the clan heads dance ceremoniously and the pipe
is passed and the moon swells

in the sky like a gorgeous melon
ripening and little boys say fetch out the nets let’s eat
that there moon

because the dirge song peculiar to the loon will rise
importune as steam because you never know
when to expect dismemberment
of one of your own

First published in the Autumn 2009 issue of The Southern Review

The birds merge, close ranks above
as summer slips out
the side door.
The trees resign themselves
to a surgical fall.

They undergo the small,
slow incisions
as the knife moves coolly,
nibbling a path, back and forth
over the bright twigs.

So it is, when grace enters the room
on quiet feet.
She dresses the wounds,
pours spoonfuls
of her essence, very like

ineffable lightness, some say.
And grace urges, Drink.
It’s good for you.
And the children wave, drive off
to the chosen college

below a smaller sun of autumn,
and the trees
stand elegant in their skins,
not separate ever, nor outside
the symmetry of life,

of time, and the passing of time.

First published in the Fall 2007 issue of The Southern Review