The range, patinated with grime and abuse,
roars its lovely fire, emanating its holy hearth
and restores my deadened life with another—anew.
The inanimate animal is no more that,
but an expression of fragrance and spice;
an essence impressed by
the hands that nurtured it.
This act of careful and
considerate gleaning,
draws iridescent red from the cavity,
like intimacy;
its strictness a delicate
deft stroke of the knife,
splaying open a picked pomegranate like
a harvest of bloodied meats,
an exploded grenade.
But how could the color
of this defeated sprig of herbs,
this broken bouquet of flesh
cut cleanly not two days ago,
be a discrimination of worth;
the difference between
beings kept and discarded?
kill it
save it
I am dictated by demands of the tongue,
married to foods more
than half a world away;
salvage in salted, shimmering depths.
Husking treasures from its hell,
I mull over every precious anatomy in my hand:
veins,
pin bones,
jowl and goldeneye,
jewel-like progenies,
its last meal.
Like that peeled beast I often serve on a plate,
I can only stumble
to claw at my own truth—
I am merely
myself,
an animal
no longer on its legs.