(POETRY)
MYTH OF BAT SOUP
DION O'REILLY
MYTH OF BAT SOUP
DION O'REILLY
No, Coronavirus Was Not Caused by 'Bat Soup'....
headline from Health.com 2 February 2020
Let’s imagine her as she stirs the broth. Bits
of wild mushroom. Raw scallions. White onion
wilted in salt-heat. Coconut cream.
Galangal. Small bones of wing and foot.
How could I blame her? There was a time I’d eat anything.
Unwind my tongue like a lizard as I walked the tianguis,
among turtle eggs and steer hooves. Writhing larvae.
I wanted it all. Why else travel? I said to my horrified daughter
as she watched me eat lungs bloated in blood
sprigged with fresh cilantro.
But now, I see my imaginary cook, hair pulled back.
Her young face, gleaming with steam, breathing in
the sea smell of soup. Rich concoction, lightly simmered,
decanted to delicate bowls inscribed with frozen birds.
And I wonder why we can’t stick with the humble chicken,
bred for swollen breasts, no life outside our cages.
Aren’t fish enough? Reaped. No, carved. Let’s say wracked
out of the deep with trawlers or bulldozers. Whatever instrument
to feed the wild-rising need. The unslaked appetite.
Did she taste the distemper hidden in the kelpy
broth? Did she begin to sicken before the porcelain spoon
touched the last furry scrap?
If she lived, did she still look to the tops
of trees, to the black glinting
hieroglyphics scribbled across the night?
headline from Health.com 2 February 2020
Let’s imagine her as she stirs the broth. Bits
of wild mushroom. Raw scallions. White onion
wilted in salt-heat. Coconut cream.
Galangal. Small bones of wing and foot.
How could I blame her? There was a time I’d eat anything.
Unwind my tongue like a lizard as I walked the tianguis,
among turtle eggs and steer hooves. Writhing larvae.
I wanted it all. Why else travel? I said to my horrified daughter
as she watched me eat lungs bloated in blood
sprigged with fresh cilantro.
But now, I see my imaginary cook, hair pulled back.
Her young face, gleaming with steam, breathing in
the sea smell of soup. Rich concoction, lightly simmered,
decanted to delicate bowls inscribed with frozen birds.
And I wonder why we can’t stick with the humble chicken,
bred for swollen breasts, no life outside our cages.
Aren’t fish enough? Reaped. No, carved. Let’s say wracked
out of the deep with trawlers or bulldozers. Whatever instrument
to feed the wild-rising need. The unslaked appetite.
Did she taste the distemper hidden in the kelpy
broth? Did she begin to sicken before the porcelain spoon
touched the last furry scrap?
If she lived, did she still look to the tops
of trees, to the black glinting
hieroglyphics scribbled across the night?
Dion O’Reilly's first book, Ghost Dogs, was published in February 2020 by Terrapin Books. Her work appears in Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Narrative, The New Ohio Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Letters, Sugar House Review, Rattle, The Sun, and other literary journals and anthologies. Her poetry has been nominated for several Pushcarts and been shortlisted for a variety of prizes. She is a member of The Hive Poetry Collective, which produces podcasts and events, and she teaches ongoing workshops on a farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains.
