Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2016
So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,

separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.

In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.

It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,

but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.

In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls

the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.

The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid

abstracts.

I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch

and watch the mangled colorsβ€”
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stallβ€”

the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.
Jonathan Witte
Written by
Jonathan Witte  East of Georgia Avenue
(East of Georgia Avenue)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems