Letter To Karen From Southern Illinois

The one-eyed butcher can't believe
I've given up on meat. No salami
rich enough, nor ham as tender
as those psalms the children sing.
His wife owns an arthritic cat
that's lost its teeth: a gum disease.
It lives on milk and mush.
I would not lie to you. The weather
has been bad for where we live
although you would think it mild.
A change in climate, now a change
in appetite.
I'm eating things we didn't know I loved:
dark cheese, darkened fruits, potatoes
black as tumors miner's grow.
Here they harvest coal with a machine
three stories tall. It's true.
Theresa's seen it.
My wife contends I'm gaining weight.
At night she grinds her teeth, a sign
of worms in the intestines.
The butcher claims I won't last a month,
but listen, Ann has written
how the Kiwi berry, a kind of hairy egg
that tastes like wine, has made her smarter.
Imagine what some Muscatel could do!
I would not tell you, Karen,
that we have vineyards in Southern Illinois,
but I'm living on the edge
of the Shawnee National Forest
where dogs, bred wild, hunt in packs
and bring down deer and men. We have lakes
so deep we're scared to fish them.
We have slogans, recipes and legends.
The butcher thumbs his scales and stares
whenever I walk by, his wife
rocks back and forth behind the counter.
They think I'm pale. For all they know
the sun comes up each morning from Kentucky,
sets in Cape Girardeau.
It might be true. I've stood on hills
above the Trail of Tears and watched
that star dissolve. I've heard odd voices
echoing through the pines.
Some of the things I'm eating now
you couldn't bear to touch. It's true
if not delightful.
Anyway, I'm healthy, strong and calm,
hope you are the same.
When I began this letter it was dark
and now it's almost dawn. The only sound
my neighbor's and my woman turning
in their gnashing, restless sleep.