Episode 155 Buttercream w/Special Guest Caitlin Scarano

Connor and Jack are joined by special guest Caitlin Scarano to discuss the poem "Buttercream" from her new collection The Necessity of Wildfire. The collection won the Wren Poetry Prize, selected by final judge Ada Limón. Scarano discusses the poem, the collection, and the ways her work has taken what she describes as an "environmental turn" since completing The Necessity of Wildfire. She also talks about some of her upcoming projects that blend art with environmental action.

Order a copy of the book, here.

Learn more about Caitlin Scarano, here.

Buttercream
By: Caitlin Scarano

I cut open an avocado only to find it dappled
with rot. I eat it anyway. Because my blood
burns, I decide not to have children. My father's
father was full of copper. His son, a liver
textured with scarring. I ate it anyway.
I asked for guidance, not a leash and a collar.
I turn my belly inside out - it's dappled
with eggs the color of buttercream. My hens
don't know which are fertilized
and which aren't. My mother lost her wedding
ring in vegetable garden dirt. I dig
out the rot. I say I decided
not to have children but no man
ever asked me and meant it. If each parent gives you
a defective gene, you can bake a cake
or crawl across the floor between buckets
of your own blood. I dig but never find
the ring. Some hens sit on eggs
until they rot. Some men take hammers
to their wives. My lover yawns.
Of all the stories I could tell, I've learned
of all the stories you could tell. Her blood
burned. My mother made a red
velvet cake with buttercream frosting.
She ate the whole thing. She never told anyone
who believed her. He might have been
sick his whole broken bowl
of a life. I might find a golden ring
around my iris. I might not
be a creature versed in dirt. Anger,
like a memory, takes away as much
as it provides. Some hens leave their eggs
where they land. Either way, we
follow. We gather. We eat them.