Stewing

I stewed the stewing chicken

in the chicken stewing pot

turning the water golden with 

her earnest years of steadfast service.

She stewed for hours

but would not come undone,

dross floating to the surface

in a frothy beige foam.

Organs tumbling hardening

rather than softening over time.

Eventually I wrestled her

wearing workman’s gloves under vinyl gloves,

wielding tongs and shears and knife

but she refused to yield without a fight.

I minced the unbearably dense muscle

as it would be impossible to chew,

removing skin, yellow fat and sinew

then adding spongy parsnips, celery,

carrots, and frozen wilted parsley.

She is my medicine

I am her champion

I sit and sip, revering her plight 

hoping to manifest the stoutheartedness 

of this tough old bird.

Everything 

(for Tasche and Leonard)

I dreamed that I was called upon to assist

Leonard Cohen in packing for his last trip.

When I arrived, I kissed him

on the mouth like an old friend.

He was dressed in monks’ robes

looking uncomfortable in this skin.

It surprised me when he began to throw

piles of possessions onto the cot:

One, two, three suitcases

and endless unkempt wads of gear.

As I untangled the knot of stuff

he told me about his obsession with

accumulating athletic hobbies

he dreamt one day of trying.

So, in went the kayak, running shoes,

the rugby helmet and bowling pins.

I packed his bags, more magician than pragmatist,

as he stood by, small and humble

and folded his hands gingerly.

“They tell me,” he said

in that honey-lava-chocolate-earth voice,

“that I should choose one and focus,”

his smile was audible in the creases of his face,

“But Everything is all I’ve got.”

-Andrine de la Rocha

1/2/17