I am hanging from a hook in the ceiling
like animal carcass.
I am splayed open, salted and tenderized.
My fatty bits sectioned off with bakers twine.
Red juices weep from my wounds.
Not blood, but the meat sweating
for better flavor.
A heavy palm comes down hard on my rump.
He lifts from the flank.
He samples the breast.
Hunger animates his body but he knows he must wait until the meat is ready.
He massages oils into the fibrous texture.
Working it in with the strong flat pads of his thumbs and fingers.
The meat is shivering.
The meat is shaking.
I’m told this is a chemical process.
Even once dead and removed from the body,
the meat dances on the table.
Due to the residual energy and nerve endings present in the tissue.
The flesh will twitch.
But it must be ready.
When it is ready he’ll carve it off in slabs,
and drop them into his mouth;
a mouse falling into the mouth of a snake
hanging by the tail.
He’ll glide the knife under the muscle
and it will slide down his throat
but it must be ready.
The meat is hanging but will not dry.
It drips
and drips
more juices.
The air is escaping.
The tendons are loosening.
He ties her off again and again.
Soon little lamb.
Soon.
- MEAT 2024
