Issue #28.10 Three Poems by McLord Selasi
Field Trip
When I was twelve, we went to the slaughterhouse. They said it was for “educational purposes.”
The cows looked just like cows. The smell looked like something I couldn’t draw. The man who showed us around wore an apron that said “Chevon.”
He didn’t smile, but he gave us safety goggles and said:
“This part you’re not supposed to see.”
I think I’ve been looking for that part ever since.
Citrus
The orange sat on the counter for ten days. Softening in its own bright skin, becoming tender the way some memories do before they spoil.
We bought it on a Tuesday. We said, “We should eat better.” We meant, “We should try.”
By Friday, we were eating pizza in bed again, watching a documentary about sharks.
I whispered, “Do you think oranges feel abandoned?” You said, “I think they rot either way.”
Communion
My brother says the grape juice at church tastes like regret.
I nod like I understand. We watch the old women with soft, clumsy hands pass around the crackers like currency.
The pastor talks about blood. I think about tomato stew.
How it always makes me cry. How I once spilled it on my mother’s best tablecloth and she didn’t yell— just said, “That’s a stain we’ll keep.”
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McLord Selasi is a Ghanaian writer, poet, public health researcher, and performing artist. His recent works have been accepted for publication in Subliminal Surgery, Poetry Journal, Eunoia Review, The Nature of Our Times, Graveside Press, and elsewhere. You can connect with him on X (@MclordSela64222).
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