Candlelight

Candlelight by Tony Hoagland | Sunday, August 06, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk

to worship the moon rising

like a yellow filling-station sign

on the black horizon,

you feel the faint grit

of ants beneath your shoes,

but keep on walking

because in this world

you have to decide what

you’re willing to kill.

Saving your marriage might mean

dinner for two

by candlelight on steak

raised on pasture

chopped out of rain forest

whose absence might mean

an atmospheric thinness

fifty years from now

above the vulnerable head

of your bald grandson on vacation

as the cells of his scalp

sautéed by solar radiation

break down like suspects

under questioning.

Still you slice

the sirloin into pieces

and feed each other

on silver forks

under the approving gaze

of a waiter

whose purchased attention

and French name

are a kind of candlelight themselves,

while in the background

the fingertips of the pianist

float over the tusks

of the slaughtered elephant

without a care,

as if the elephant

had granted its permission.