In the mouth
in the gut. In
pan,
in pot.
matters only what we stomach
for longer days
ahead.
Long pig, from old myths that bubble
out of the old timers
who wrangle dirt farms
to compliment
the meat.
Signs I've tracked
show a lean
winter.
We vowed
to move south,
just a few hundred
miles
each year, but the gut
of the creek
crosses
the old roads
here
and so many people
come through;
its like being at the butcher's.
If I'd known
what I know
now, that I prefer
the meat
of a woman,
I'd paid more attention
to the abbatoir's
heavy chop.
It is cruel love to mark a human so
and add and divide and imagine
the cuts, how the flesh separates
from the whole, the beatiful marble.
And having become the troll
will I turn to my lovely ones
and lay their cuts upon an airy table?
Will all of my handshakes become scales?
