United States, (contemporary)
The Butcher’s Bride
- No one wanted to bloody their hands after the butcher
- was shot through the neck by robbers who fled
- leaving the front door open and three pigs
- hanging in the window. And what about the dead butcher’s bride?
- Men gathered to discuss how long the village would remain
- without meat. They decided to repair the dock next to the cafes
- they drank at each evening, pay for the work by selling
- the butcher’s knives and pigs. Whatever money remained
- would go to the bride. The open door would be discussed later.
- The man with the darkest hair was sent to tell her the news.
The Relentless
- One day we’ll know how long
- the dead have to be dead
- before they feel hunger.
- One day it’ll be summer forever.
- In the meantime, the weather,
- looking for its cue, keeps an eye on me;
- and I keep whatever money’s in my pocket
- crumpled in a ball. A relentless
- responsibility dogs me, and the funny thing
- is, these are the lyrics to a happy song.
- Go ahead, tap your foot,
- snap your fingers.
- We’re roasting a pig in the yard.
In the Apartment Above the Butcher Shop
- My mother washed dishes in the bathtub
- then bathed me and my brother,
- set us on the sofa to watch television.
- Black and white washed over us.
- At the end of each show Mother sat with us
- pointing out good people always win in the end.
- By the time I was eight I could hear the difference
- between a cleaver chopping a flank of beef, leg of lamb
- or the thin ear of a pig. You have to be
- a butcher’s son to know why this is important.
- My father worked for the butcher,
- hanging pigs in the window.
- Steel hooks through their cut throats.
- Mouths open as if they had one more thing to say.
- The headless chickens in the cold
- box were always gone by noon, an hour earlier
- Father wrapped two chickens in wax paper and newspaper,
- put them aside until Mother brought his coffee.
- My mother shouted
- don’t track blood through the kitchen,
- when she heard us come up the stairs.
- Outside, shadows quietly battled
- for control of the streets
- — a sound often mistaken for wind
- dragging newspaper along the sidewalk,
- a sound we wouldn’t identify for years.
About the Poet:
Rick Bursky, United States, (contemporary), is a poet, freelance ad guy, writer, photographer and educator. He received his BFA from Art Center College of Design, and an MFA from Warren Wilson College. Bursky also teaches poetry at UCLA Extension; and when not teaching there he teaches copy writing at USC’s Annenberg School of Communication. He also worked for 14 years in the L.A. office of DDB as an associate creative director.
Bursky is a career advertising professional who is passionate about teaching up-and-coming advertising practitioners, or anyone interested the cultural phenomena that advertising can be. He has spent several decades as a writer in large ad agencies and has won some of the most prestigious advertising awards.
His poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, The Iowa Review, AGNI, Harvard Review, FIELD, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. Bursky believes poetry, or anything for that matter, is best written with a fountain pen but doesn’t insist students or co-workers write with one. [DES-07/22]
Additional information:
- More on Rick Bursky at https://www.rickbursky.com/