Cold Zodiac and Butchered Pig

Onward the fairweather spleen.
Onward the season of vent and caprice.

Giovedì Grasso flies the meat,
trees still larded with winter grease — 
ice, the Dead Time, the Flensing Time.

Flirt fattened Thursday of December’s gorge.
The twelve pigs of the zodiac stew the zeal,
slow simmering giddy fizzling squeals.

Uncloister the close-air surgical theater.
Ungristle the knife-jester’s grip.

Let the butcher carnival begin!

More Poems by Sylvia Legris