Upcycle

A stranger in the homestead.
Frilled apron, tied behind, over burlap
Over skin
Over meat
Over bones.
One of these layers is out of place–
I carve off hunks of fat
And hand them out
Like bites of iberico ham.
Wouldn’t want all of those years,
All of those fistfuls of acorns
To go to waste.
They’ll never become trees–
I am not fertile ground.
They’ll never become bread–
I have chewed them up
And spun my stomach round,
Centrifuged and siphoned off
Only what I need,
Only what tastes like nascent muscle
And sweet.
So won’t you please take a nibble?
I’m too hot in all these layers–
Need to shuck something.
And it simply wouldn’t do
To get flour on my high noon suit–
I’ll wait until the dust has settled,
See who ends up red-streaked outside the saloon.
Take this knife, would you?
Tell the vultures not to fight over me.
Carve me up
So each can sup in her own corner.
Let them carry off each organ
To the place that each belongs–
Let my brain away to the mountains,
Soaring through clear air.
Let my lungs away to Scotland,
Where the law lets them breathe deep.
Let my heart take root here, in the blood-soaked ground,
To ask for only wine
And pump out only perpetuity.