Teresa Dzieglewicz
The Only Vegetarian at the Branding
I like this—my knee on its neck
coarse calf hide filling the hole
frayed through my jeans.
With my elbow, I press the flat of its cheek
onto hoof-stomped dirt and dead grass
that tangles like hair. My thick braid hangs
across his body, an echo
of the rope that dragged him
from the aluminum pen where his mother keens
and men yell she won’t eat ‘em
but she sure can wrassle ‘em.
For them, I dig my knee deeper,
grip tighter and pull back
his jerking leg, turn his belly skyward, like screwing
open a tobacco tin. The men holler for me.
Cody, my classroom aid,
who I see usually stuffed in a child’s chair,
teaching kids to count, pulls the buck knife
from between his teeth, gently
slices the thin skin of testicles,
tosses them in the bucket filled with balls,
pale moons rivered with blood. Some days, I want
to be a man. A large one. Somebody nobody
would ever interrupt or call pretty
in dwindling gas station light,
someone you would never follow in a gold car,
hanging out like a loose tooth, yelling things I could do
with my mouth.
Cody’s brother, in a beige baseball cap
pulls the iron from the branding barrel.
For him, hot metal is money, a job,
the weave of the land,
but, I, who catch spiders delicately
between magazines and juice glasses,
walk them to the prettiest bushes; I, who once
bathed a chicken, massaged her hip for hours
to free an egg; I who teach my students
power is for sharing, a rope to pull each other up,
I’m the one proud, hollering now
as he touches iron to skin.
Only in the shower that night,
as the scent of burnt flesh,
charred fur unweave from my hair,
spiral like smoke around my wrists,
do I wonder what wire fences
I’ve let grow in my chest. Do I wonder
how to be the woman
I say that I am.
For dinner, Cody’s mom made everyone steak,
my pb&j on the side of the tray,
white bread already absorbing
the blood. In the cramped yellow kitchen, his brother
throws testicles into hot oil. Ms. D he yells
you can’t leave a branding without eating some balls.
They’re free range, Cody offers.
Because, I want anything
but weakness, I slide the hot chunk of flesh
into my cheek. It resists the point of my teeth.
It's....rubbery, I say. Hard as fuck to chew.
Teresa Dzieglewicz is an educator and current MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University where she worked as an Editorial Assistant at Crab Orchard Review. She received a scholarship to New Harmony Writer's Workshop and her poems have appeared in RHINO, South Dakota Review, and Crab Creek Review. Her poem "Stranger, thank you for giving me this body" received a 2018 Pushcart Prize
Return to July 2017 Edition
I like this—my knee on its neck
coarse calf hide filling the hole
frayed through my jeans.
With my elbow, I press the flat of its cheek
onto hoof-stomped dirt and dead grass
that tangles like hair. My thick braid hangs
across his body, an echo
of the rope that dragged him
from the aluminum pen where his mother keens
and men yell she won’t eat ‘em
but she sure can wrassle ‘em.
For them, I dig my knee deeper,
grip tighter and pull back
his jerking leg, turn his belly skyward, like screwing
open a tobacco tin. The men holler for me.
Cody, my classroom aid,
who I see usually stuffed in a child’s chair,
teaching kids to count, pulls the buck knife
from between his teeth, gently
slices the thin skin of testicles,
tosses them in the bucket filled with balls,
pale moons rivered with blood. Some days, I want
to be a man. A large one. Somebody nobody
would ever interrupt or call pretty
in dwindling gas station light,
someone you would never follow in a gold car,
hanging out like a loose tooth, yelling things I could do
with my mouth.
Cody’s brother, in a beige baseball cap
pulls the iron from the branding barrel.
For him, hot metal is money, a job,
the weave of the land,
but, I, who catch spiders delicately
between magazines and juice glasses,
walk them to the prettiest bushes; I, who once
bathed a chicken, massaged her hip for hours
to free an egg; I who teach my students
power is for sharing, a rope to pull each other up,
I’m the one proud, hollering now
as he touches iron to skin.
Only in the shower that night,
as the scent of burnt flesh,
charred fur unweave from my hair,
spiral like smoke around my wrists,
do I wonder what wire fences
I’ve let grow in my chest. Do I wonder
how to be the woman
I say that I am.
For dinner, Cody’s mom made everyone steak,
my pb&j on the side of the tray,
white bread already absorbing
the blood. In the cramped yellow kitchen, his brother
throws testicles into hot oil. Ms. D he yells
you can’t leave a branding without eating some balls.
They’re free range, Cody offers.
Because, I want anything
but weakness, I slide the hot chunk of flesh
into my cheek. It resists the point of my teeth.
It's....rubbery, I say. Hard as fuck to chew.
Teresa Dzieglewicz is an educator and current MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University where she worked as an Editorial Assistant at Crab Orchard Review. She received a scholarship to New Harmony Writer's Workshop and her poems have appeared in RHINO, South Dakota Review, and Crab Creek Review. Her poem "Stranger, thank you for giving me this body" received a 2018 Pushcart Prize
Return to July 2017 Edition