Listen : A poetic response to Brigit Pegeen Kelly's poem "Song"
Listen, Kelly: you are wrong. The goat’s song is far from sweet. It is a baby’s shriek from the cradle, a train’s whistle from the station, a teakettle in the dark. It is a cry upon a cry, rolled and dipped to coat the agony seen from its opened eyes. I, I have seen the goat’s head swaying in a willow, a sliver amongst the thick locks. I, I have seen headless dogs become a nest for the maggot’s future. I have seen my father in the early morning burying a garbage bag with a pancaked cat inside. I have discovered a groundhog tangled in a soccer net with a snapped jaw and bloody nose. I watched a dancing doe get slammed by a Hummer only to get up and get slammed by a Civic only to get up and get slammed by a Jaguar only to get up and get slammed by a Ford only to get up and trudge into a wood accompanied with the sounds of horns and me screaming. I see them dress the sides of highways and streets; the innards of squirrels used as tinsel, the black, uplifted wing of a falcon as garland. But it doesn’t matter if the holiday is over, Kelly- we often leave these things out well into Easter. Your poem, Kelly, is shit. Even those who once cared, like me, we stop. A dead raccoon once lay in the middle of our road. For a week we watched its belly rise, bloated, and my mother would comment that someone really ought to pick that up. No one did until the vultures came and gobbled down the leftover goo. My father and I went out for a walk that night and I stepped on pieces of the spine. I once cared. I didn’t anymore. I kicked the bones out of the way and snickered that someone really needs to pick that up
OH MY FUCKING GOD, I JUST GOT BACK ALL THE VOTES FROM MY BOARD AND THEY ARE ALL IDIOTS; THEY HAVE THE WORST TASTE IN PICKING OUT QUALITY WRITING, SO NOW I HAVE TO GO BACK AND REREAD EVERYTHING AND PICK OUT ALL THE GOOD STUFF. I’M BASICALLY DOING THEIR JOB, SO I’M GOING TO GO JUMP OFF A CLIFF NOW, OKAY? BYE.