Amy A. Whitcomb
Poetry
Photo credit: Karin Higgins
Amy A. Whitcomb is an artist and editor based in northern California. Her poetry and prose have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Witness, New South, Terrain.org, Brevity, River Teeth, and other journals. After several seasons as a biological science technician for the National Park Service, she earned a Master of Science degree and a Master of Fine Arts degree, both from the University of Idaho. She enjoys hiking and spending time with her toddler niece.
Cause for Celebration
It is New Year’s Eve. There is a hambone in the peas
and a badger hide on the wall and a four-year-old
who wants to show me a couple of coots’ feet
in a Ziploc baggie. Tucking them into his jacket pocket
and heading to the door, he announces, “I’m going back out
with the boys,” by which he means the men, inspecting a wild boar
hung to dry. How did I get here? A city girl,
also vegetarian. The fawn skull on the stoop goes poof
into a dog’s stomach when no one’s looking. The other
dog wears a shock collar and the women of other men
wear maternity jeans, and the sac of eggs that spills out of a catfish
into the sink is tapioca to me, is the bulb of bulbs atop One Times Square.
Conversation around the dinner table comes to cuts of meat,
and when I ask my partner what rabbit tastes like, he answers,
“Tastes like rabbit.” He doesn’t know that in my version
I add “my love” to tenderize what he said. And yes I know
what that word means. It means countdown to happy. His hand
on my thigh, grounding me. The rest is gravy.
“
This poem comes from the first time I dated a hunter and angler, when I was forced to confront things as bodies that
give and take. I think the poem captures the jumbled-up awe and alienation I felt not only being a novice among experts
but also unexpectedly getting to know myself by getting to know others. I have never eaten rabbit meat.
”
