I started this site in the spring of 2013, and I started posting "Featured Poems of the Week" at that time. Every week I share one pome by Emmett Lee Dickinson (Emily Dickinson's third cousin, twice removed -- at her request) and one poem by Emily Dickinson. Occasionally I share additional poems in a given week, but only once -- if my memory serves me correctly -- only once have I featured a poem by different poet. I know a few years back I shared a humorous poem by Nancy Friedman as a Featured Poem of the Week. Alas, I can't recall now what the background was as to why I shared her lines or what the topic of the poem was -- though I do remember it was a humorous take on a current event.
This week marks the second time I've highlighted a poet other than the two Dickinsons, Emmett Lee and Emily. This week's Featured Poem of the Week is "On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs" by Renee Nicole Good, the American citizen murdered this past week by an ICE agent, the coward and micro-penised Jonathan Ross.
Good wrote the poem while she attended Old Dominion University (by coincidence, where I attended college), and it won a poetry contest in 2020 sponsored by the Academy of American Poets.
“On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs”
By Renee Nicole Good
i want back my rocking chairs,
solipsist sunsets,
& coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.
i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores
(mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp--
the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):
remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils,
& salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms.
under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat
ribosome
endoplasmic--
lactic acid
stamen
at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills--
i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe my gut--
maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.
it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead.
can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom
now i can’t believe--
that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to & exhaling from their
mouths “make room for wonder”--
all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as:
life is merely
to ovum and sperm
and where those two meet
and how often and how well
and what dies there.
This week marks the second time I've highlighted a poet other than the two Dickinsons, Emmett Lee and Emily. This week's Featured Poem of the Week is "On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs" by Renee Nicole Good, the American citizen murdered this past week by an ICE agent, the coward and micro-penised Jonathan Ross.
Good wrote the poem while she attended Old Dominion University (by coincidence, where I attended college), and it won a poetry contest in 2020 sponsored by the Academy of American Poets.
“On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs”
By Renee Nicole Good
i want back my rocking chairs,
solipsist sunsets,
& coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.
i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores
(mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp--
the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):
remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils,
& salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms.
under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat
ribosome
endoplasmic--
lactic acid
stamen
at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills--
i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe my gut--
maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.
it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead.
can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom
now i can’t believe--
that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to & exhaling from their
mouths “make room for wonder”--
all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as:
life is merely
to ovum and sperm
and where those two meet
and how often and how well
and what dies there.
| You can hear the poem read aloud by clicking on the photo below:  | Good's wife's statement read below ("We had whistles. They had guns."):  | You can hear about the coward's very telling reaction to his killing below:  |
Dog killer Kriti Noem and Diapered Don reacted within minutes spinning lies and disinformation about the murder. They tried to get ahead of the story by painting Good as a domestic terrorist -- when they themselves are the terrorists. EVERYTHING THEY SAID AND POSTED WAS A LIE! WATCH THE VIDEOS.
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