Poems by Sally Molini

Carnivorous

by Sally Molini

From Canary Fall 2014

Sally lives and writes near Heron Haven, a spring-fed wetlands sanctuary and one of the last ox-bow wetlands of Big Papillion Creek.

no more, if I had to
dispatch the creature or watch
someone else transform a chicken
into anonymous shrink-wrapped meat,

for dinner whole legs roasted with baby
Yukons, mushrooms and onions.
My TV tray all set as I tell Planet Earth
predators to stop chasing the caribou

and eat something leafy, as if they could
ignore the nature they’re driven by
on this sextillion-ton
self-absorbed orbit that feeds on itself,

nestled in its little cosmic spot,
doing the same things over and over.
At least I refuse to pick banded lobsters
from a tank, recalling the words of a monk

I know: the connection to the animal is less
when bought at a supermarket.
What earthling doesn’t want a happy life,
so many waiting in cages, pens, and corrals,

forkfuls of a bird I never knew
lifted to mouth as the grind
continues, the human mind as usual
feeding itself reasons.

© Sally Molini

Leaf Glossolalia

by Sally Molini

From Canary Summer 2014

I've listened and taken
notes, the rustle and hiss
can't be nonsense,
so many tongues for anyone
to hear -- pinnate, whorled, elliptic,
lobed, their meaning lost
on humans. Birds could translate
but don't have time for all the trees
whispering their summer
plans and heartwood stories,
lamina-lisped dialects
of maple, willow and ash,
dry sighs from a birch copse,
the linden's slow foliole
phasia, scots pine forest
a blue-green buzz of reach
and light as each root
hurries to reap what's left.

Previously published in Tar River Poetry, Spring 2008