Poem: Wild Food
As the soft round vowels of October
are pricked and poked out of the way
by the sharp points of Ns and Vs
you bring another dinner.
I light candles, put out plates.
Tonight it might be pheasant
from a South Dakota cornfield
or walleye pulled through a hole in the ice.
You hunt the seasons through the year.
I open wine I bought at a shop near the mall.
We come together from opposite ends of the table
the way letters come together to make words,
separate, change position and meaning,
until food is gone, words are gone,
candles burn down and sputter out.