Denise Duhamel

POEM IN WHICH I WONDER HOW THE SAUSAGE WAS MADE

Who hunts the animal (experience)
and who kills it? Who butchers filets (prose)
and tosses this poet emotional scraps?
How does she use the liver and heart?
How does she decide on the casing
(mini-sonnet or free verse)? Does she crush
the bones and gristle into something
delicious? Does she ply the meat grinder
hoping to make music—or wait,
am I that monkey in a red felt hat?—
turning the crank, trying to make art?

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