Olofsson, Tommy

English

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© Providence College  The author(s) permits users to copy, distribute, display, and perform this work under the following conditions: (1) the original author(s) must be given proper attribution; (2) this work may not be used for commercial purposes; (3) the users may not alter, transform, or build upon this work; (4) users must make the license terms of this work clearly known for any reuse or distribution of this work. Upon request, as holder of this work’s copyright, the author(s) may waive any or all of these conditions.  The Prose Poem: An International Journal is produced by The Berkeley Electronic Press (bepress) for the Providence College Digital Commons. http://digitalcommons.providence.edu/prosepoems/ THE PROSE POEM: AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL  Volume 7 | 1998 Chicago Tommy Olofsson  Tommy OlofssonCHICAGOHaving followed an instrument maker to a Chicago slaughterhouse andstood at the end of the conveyor belt picking out pieces of bone suitablefor harpsichord keys, and having subsequently grasped Emerson’s tran-scendental points about Aquinas and his scholastic break with the ac-cepted and (in the literal sense) metaphysical problems of the resurrec-tion, I want to propose herewith, in ample time for the next assembly ofchurches, a memorandum concerning cannibals and animals.  Consid-ering that cannibals are now a dying race without sufficient access totheir traditional diet, we should, as a deterrent and also for the sake ofethnological research, make life easier for the few tribes still hangingon by the skin of their teeth outside the aegis of the Church.  Thesituation of domestic animals is less precarious, but they don’t want tobe turned into food and have actually never chosen to be served on ourplates.  Pigs are slaughtered under protest that squeals to high heaven.They want to go back to their fetid stalls and wallow in the mud andawait eternal life, which by right ought to be available even to them.The pig wants to be pieced back together again, to be made wholeagain so he can scratch himself happy against a rough board.  And thevelvet-eyed veal calves crammed in their crates dream of being grantedjust one glimpse of the sky’s blue face.  Most of all they want to liveforever, exactly like us!Translated from the Swedishby Jean Pearson

Chicago

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https://digitalcommons.providence.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1506&amp;context=prosepoem

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