About the poet
Jane Weir is an Anglo-Italian writer and designer. She has published two poetry collections with...
On the Recommendation of Ovid We Tried a Weasel
It was the first mammal he ever gave me.
He must have trapped it late last night when the moon
disappeared inside a nightclub of clouds
and stars giggling staggered behind.
I found it in the morning, slung like an amulet
across the lapel of my winter coat, flattened to a strip,
satin lined, its snout firm like the tip of a snooker cue,
black-tipped and bloody.
In truth he’d tried other things, such as the skins of a dozen
pulverized rattle snakes, the milk from a score
of white iced rabbits, a pot of crayfish.
Then there were the showers of flowers.
Oh yes, the flowers, barrow boy loads of flowers,
such as the biblical Selaginella,
a cruciferous plant that he said -
if I ever reached full term - was believed
as it bloomed to smooth out the suffering of delivery.
He was known to serenade me in my sleep
with those hollowed out Halloween
gourds favoured by percussionists;
for it’s said the loose pieces left inside
simulate the rattling sound of an embryo.
What else can I say- we tried and tried.
I practically wore the weasel to death.
Ask yourself, how many times can you scrape
the bottom of a barrel? He shocked me with a rat,
a dead cat dredged from a sacred river bed.
I drew the line. He gave up after that.
unpublished poem, © Jane Weir 2015, used by permission of the author
Sponsor this poem
Would you like to sponsor this poem? Find out how here.
Jane Weir Downloads