Komunyakaa, "The Smokehouse"

In the hickory scent
Among slabs of port
That glistened with salt,
I played Indian
In a headdress of redbird feathers
& brass buttons
Off my mother’s winter coat.
The smoke wove
A thread of fire into meat, through November.
The dead weight
Of the place hung around me,
Strung up by tendons — 
Tied up with sweetgrass.
The hog had been sectioned,,
As if a map
Were drawn on its skin;
Opened like love,
From snout to tail,
The goodness
No longer true to each bone.
I was a wizard
In that hazy world,
& knew I could cut
Slivers of meat till my heart
Grew more human and flawed.



Yusef Komunyakaa

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