sent through a handy-dandy gadget
that makes Julian potatoes.
Cross-sectioned me,
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 stiffen the walls of the body
and protect the viscera.
That “C”
shaped gift from Adam,
that 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 so do not hesitate to ask the butcher to wrap.
