In odder fantasies, I have imagined myself,
sent through a handy-dandy gadget
which makes Julian potatoes.
a layer of adipose tissue,
wrapped in ecto-endo-dermic cellophane and skin.
A part of me slab-like, steak-like, marbled,
with a plug of bone the dog would quite enjoy.
Or possibly a breast section;
mammary tissue resting
upon one of the “C” shaped, paired,
bony or partly cartilaginous rods,
that stiffens the walls of the body
and protect the viscera.
That “C” shaped gift from Adam,
which cradles the central or innermost part,
aortic pump-thing, which makes me tick.
Or possibly a mid-section,
with stomachic vessels feeding
and maybe what my esophagus
anteriorly communicated there;
a late lunch or something swallowed
when the pouch was new,
which never did pass through;
a 1959 penny or one of Mamma’s pearls
which having rolled down my tongue
is now forming an oyster in my stomach.
And I have imagined further and odder still,
the hands of friends, relatives or strangers,
selecting their sections.
Stepping from the line,
hoping for a choice cut of their choice.
They point through the glass display
at a pair of thigh pieces,
meaty weighty cut from a big boned girl.
Me, slaughtered and dressed for the market,
like the cow you never knew,
and therefore do not hesitate
to ask the butcher to wrap.