Ellen Welcker :: 3 Poems

It’s called the sea

A tiny kitten scratches my palm. Later I find the claw embedded like a pearl or a fossil in the meat of me. I give a puppy a bloody nose that won’t stop. That night I blow up the American buffalo. I push it off a cliff. It’s my anniversary. I don’t want this to be about me. I heave a beached orca into a plastic bag. It quietly doubles over on itself. I twist the top of the bag and look for a bread tie. There is none to be found. I push it out into collective shame and anxiety. It’s called the sea. My name is unpronounceable. The whale’s name is whale.


Nature Poem

Let’s say you’re a female animal
and a parasite has infected your brain,
made you do crazy things. Let’s say
it’s not living inside you, exactly,
but near you, near enough to come
inside you, dripping poison,
though let’s say it’s not poison,
but a magic elixir that mixes
with yours, begins to grow. See
how out of control things
can be? Let’s say you’re not
a woman, exactly, but female,
a female animal, and someone,
another animal, wants to nest
inside you. She looks around
for someplace to get in and
when she does, she leaves her body
behind: now she has yours.
Her nest might look like a tumor
hip-checking for wiggle room, hungry
for your food. The animal renders
your sex organs useless and you care
for the children of this shadow-you. Now
she bores a hold in you: makes a new
vagina, where they can come
to mate with her through you,
an animal, too.


My Brand

I’m sorry, Darigold. Your cow is no good here.
Look at that cute famine on the horizon
fluffily disguised as homage
to a motherland not our own, & weirdly
appropriated in the synapses
of our affection. Unmanaged, mommily,
& valved as the veins of bovines;
ore-ish as their petty liquid spilt.
I’m yodeling when I think about my brand
I’m like, WINTER IS COMING, but then, I’m
a forgettable mammal, uddered
& tailless, fucked & machinated & sold.