Anne Heide – Two Poems

Anne Heide

Two Poems


Enclosed in his own fat
round the wide string
goes the butcher.

Says, I’ll
wrap this up
if you’ll hold me down
with your little thumbs.


There is no bird that
is crueled in such places
as this nightingale
with cheerful fingers.
At this, we’ll

never again ring his shop.

With all its curious waters.


At the table she comes finally out with,

I’ve been asked to be the butcheress.

Lo, the lovely mother.

We’ll be feasting for-ever.

White paint to paint the house

and meat.

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