By — News Desk News Desk Leave your feedback Share Copy URL https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/poetry/weekly-poem-dexter-l-booth-reads-the-body Email Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Pinterest Tumblr Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Weekly Poem: Dexter L. Booth reads ‘The Body’ Poetry Nov 4, 2013 11:10 AM EST The Body By Dexter L. Booth They split the hog down the middle. It was cold and raining, I remember the steam and the knife and the squeal and how they all left the body like a ghost. They lasted and lasted and the body shook in your hands. I was told this is sex my friend, be still. Take care to roll it like a swollen log pushed up from the belly of the river. Gently turning it over, take note of the red ants harvesting what is left beneath the bark. Be gentle. It might all just fall apart at your touch. * But I know little of the shape of a breast, perhaps that it curves like a spoon on the tongue. Your mother had one breast. I touched it once. It was a dare and I was promised it was the only way to become a man. No one thought to call the police. They ran when she began coughing up blood. I opened her shirt, pushed on her nipple like an alarm. * It was the time your sister danced up and down the aisles in church. She was possessed by some ghost, a beast built like your father. We sang. There was dinner: white bread and someone’s blood. They dipped her in the water and your father said she was clean. Dexter L. Booth, born in 1986, earned an MFA in creative writing from Arizona State University. His poems have appeared in Amendement, Grist, the New Delta Review, and Willow Springs. His debut collection, “Scratching the Ghost,” is the winner of the Cave Canem Poetry Prize, selected by Major Jackson. He lives in Tempe, Ariz. “The Body” copyright © 2013 by Dexter L. Booth. Reprinted from “Scratching the Ghost” with the permission of Graywolf Press. By — News Desk News Desk
The Body By Dexter L. Booth They split the hog down the middle. It was cold and raining, I remember the steam and the knife and the squeal and how they all left the body like a ghost. They lasted and lasted and the body shook in your hands. I was told this is sex my friend, be still. Take care to roll it like a swollen log pushed up from the belly of the river. Gently turning it over, take note of the red ants harvesting what is left beneath the bark. Be gentle. It might all just fall apart at your touch. * But I know little of the shape of a breast, perhaps that it curves like a spoon on the tongue. Your mother had one breast. I touched it once. It was a dare and I was promised it was the only way to become a man. No one thought to call the police. They ran when she began coughing up blood. I opened her shirt, pushed on her nipple like an alarm. * It was the time your sister danced up and down the aisles in church. She was possessed by some ghost, a beast built like your father. We sang. There was dinner: white bread and someone’s blood. They dipped her in the water and your father said she was clean. Dexter L. Booth, born in 1986, earned an MFA in creative writing from Arizona State University. His poems have appeared in Amendement, Grist, the New Delta Review, and Willow Springs. His debut collection, “Scratching the Ghost,” is the winner of the Cave Canem Poetry Prize, selected by Major Jackson. He lives in Tempe, Ariz. “The Body” copyright © 2013 by Dexter L. Booth. Reprinted from “Scratching the Ghost” with the permission of Graywolf Press.