Eating Myself

Poems by Brett Thibault

Portside on Canetta's deep sea charter,
I overheard some line winder say:
the ancients thought you became
the food you ate—and even harder
to believe, that a turtle shell or bear hide
makes a gift of pith and claw,
fur and wisdom, when they're worn.

Fifty yards to port, a tarpon's silver side
rolls hard feathers south toward sun;
I see my skin drink up light, sparking,
my legs a fan, blazing the air, arcing
above the forest excelsior, the dun
swales and swells. I thought,
“what nonsense," but bit my tongue.