Bone Soup, 1951

Into the red hot roil we spill, backs speckle flecked
with the wrecking heat. By fucking the farmer
we received two chunks of calf leg bones to put to boil.
Starved for days, we siphon off the fat froth,
coat our split thin lips with it. The broth is hot,
white and saltless, we suck as if from a breast.
The farmer’s barn is gutted now,
we’ve heard his last chickens were slain--
entrails snapped up to stay the fat hunger.


J.H. Yun is a fledgling poet currently studying in the MFA program at New York University. Her work has appeared in The Winter Tangerine Review, The Newer York, Artemis Journal, The Tower Journal, and elsewhere. She is also an honorable mention in the 2013 Women's National Book Association's Poetry Contest.