Lorrie Ness

At the Table

morel mushrooms       plucked from the woods,

fried in oil we last used for fish          every morsel becoming

a memory of water.                 so much time spent hunched

at the stove                  we lied about their taste.

            the punishment of eating them           was penance

for their harvest.         hauling them from the forest

in a plastic sack instead of mesh             not allowing spores to fall through

reseed the ground                    as we walked. we found answers

to our sins       a meal without heat   

a meal without salt                    with only beads of sweat                 

to brine parsnips into stew.                 a table with just enough                     

game to make us grateful of beef                   once more. a drake plummets            

into the jaws of a dog.            we pluck

feathers and birdshot              lob off its head with a blade.             

duck is a ghost we chew slowly                     our molars splitting                

breast and thigh                      tongues flapping                                

like a translation of wings.

Lorrie Ness is a poet writing in a rural corner of Virginia. When she’s not writing, she can be found stomping through the woods, watching birds and playing in the dirt. Her work can be found in numerous journals, including THRUSH, Palette Poetry and Sky Island Journal. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021 and her chapbook, Anatomy of a Woundwas published by Flowstone Press in July of 2021.