Matthew Porto
Bio: Matthew Porto holds an MFA in poetry from Boston University and a PhD in English from Texas Tech University. His work has recently appeared in Poet Lore, American Literary Review, Salamander, and elsewhere. He lives in Boston, MA.
On a Ram’s Skull in an Olive Tree
Something of Carcosa on a Greek hilltop,the hollow socket a pit the devilbored for our gaze as our eyes levelwith the rim, study the shape of the rot.At the lipless mouth, our legs go to jelly;branches click against the skull, the nostrils’twin water drops hang, floating fossilsout of time, fruit of olive underbelly.
A church lies bone-white in the town below us,but here our eyes consume other flesh: a victimnot spotless, but dry, caked with mud and dust.Our tongues quiver as we descend: a symptomof feral faith extracted from that tree:old world knowledge, bitter, pagan remedy.
A church lies bone-white in the town below us,but here our eyes consume other flesh: a victimnot spotless, but dry, caked with mud and dust.Our tongues quiver as we descend: a symptomof feral faith extracted from that tree:old world knowledge, bitter, pagan remedy.
The Woodpecker
Crow-black, crow-sized, he climbs a huge, dead trunk—a straight line from tail’s end to neck.The action at first rigid, balanced, and precise;then the hole bored, he begins pulling at the fleshy interior,tearing off chunks, cratering toward the center,a red flame glowing on his cheek.
The term for it is excavation.
I assumed he was after food,but a month later, in the July heat of the Shenandoah Valley,a nest and three chicks appeared in the gash in the wood.
I watched the determined bird each dayand thought of the Raging Bull, Jake LaMotta,in a prison cell, hungry, positive that nourishmentwas found within the solid mass,pounding his head against concrete—You’re stupid, so fucking stupid, you’re so stupid,mumbled in the darkness;then, crow-black,his back hooked, moaning,I’m not an animal. I’m not that bad.I’m not that bad…
*
I was staying in the valley for a time,a last-ditch effort to recall the pleasure of our conversation,the feeling of walking together.
There were traces of that, though what I remember bestis that woodpecker’s hammering,its feathers ruffled and dirty,as it ripped the tree apart for new life.
The term for it is excavation.
I assumed he was after food,but a month later, in the July heat of the Shenandoah Valley,a nest and three chicks appeared in the gash in the wood.
I watched the determined bird each dayand thought of the Raging Bull, Jake LaMotta,in a prison cell, hungry, positive that nourishmentwas found within the solid mass,pounding his head against concrete—You’re stupid, so fucking stupid, you’re so stupid,mumbled in the darkness;then, crow-black,his back hooked, moaning,I’m not an animal. I’m not that bad.I’m not that bad…
*
I was staying in the valley for a time,a last-ditch effort to recall the pleasure of our conversation,the feeling of walking together.
There were traces of that, though what I remember bestis that woodpecker’s hammering,its feathers ruffled and dirty,as it ripped the tree apart for new life.
