This poem– published in Eastern Iowa Review— was written in response to the COVID crisis. At first it was written as if bat soup were truly the source, but I found out that bat broth was not the origin. Still, I wanted it to be.
Myth of Bat Soup
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 can’t we 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,
the folded life that sleeps there, the swift
hieroglyphics scribbled across the night?
poetry etc by dion lissner o'reilly 