Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Mackerel

You, the contrite one,
dwell as a rock of refusal;
yet, the requisite enterprise
eventually consumes each business.

On the counter, for your butchery,
a stiffened mackerel with accusing eyes
and your repulse for all things domestic,
but you begin the boning
cutting through your idiocracy.

Was your fantasy cycle just a passing force?
How did ancestral kitchen goddesses,
craving sacrifices on their altar, triumph
and why did you concede, wielding the knife?

What purpose to your resolve, then?


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prompt: an assignment or obligatory chore