Timothy Green

“High On Hog”

(New York Times, Health, 8/12/05)

Who knew trans-fatty acids were to blame
for our clattering hearts—like metal trays
clanging in the kitchen of the chest, fist-sized
cow bells, church bells—we nearly went insane
in bed; we tore apart our dressing gowns,
ours heads between our lovers’ legs to taste
the silence there. But even in that place
of little air we heard the heavy sound
of death: the pulse as such a frail machine,
what never rests. Worried, we couldn’t sleep.
We counted saturated fats like sheep
and after years of choosing margarine
of course our arteries have grown too hard,
hydrogenized. So now we cook with lard.

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