Here’s a poem from the November 21, 2011 issue of The New Yorker – the Thanksgiving issue, which is purely about food, and therefore a very appropriate place for a passing mention of the glutton-of-all-gluttons. I have no real understanding of poetry, and I don’t claim to have any insight into this poem, but since wolverines make an appearance, it’s worth mentioning. This is reprinted without permission, but with respect, and without any profit-making motive, simply with the intent of compiling all references to wolverines. Happy Thanksgiving!
“Apotropaically,” by the way, indicates something that wards off evil.
Epicurean – Danielle Chapman
On mosaic-tiled abalone stairs
the mayor one-upped a local genius
with one about a wolverine
who swam down from Eau Claire
for weasel season in the Chicago River.
All the pricklefeather ladies wore
coyote skulls instead of hats
to high tea at the Peninsula,
and a foam chest arrived at the door –
four flavors of cream and one blood-orange
sorbet in dry ice from Nairobi.
A forty-dollar tangerine of nutmeat
ribboned by slender Greek
fingers of lovers so charmed
his coifed stubble matched her armpit hairs
was handed to me, apotropaically,
while every day I remember reading
“Middlemarch” outside the zoo,
riding my bike into the Air&Water Show,
fuming at Bellow as the bombers tore
repellently close to the Hancock Tower,
pedalling away from Ashkenazi
with your smile slicing through me
ruthlessly as Rufus slamming the blade
through plush pastrami – Oh!
Intensity! What am I to do with you, I
whose only dream was to inspire
the celebrity chefs at war
to make with liquid nitrogen
what Murano glassblowers did with fire?