From the bite, tender muscle splits on my tongue,
Excreting the flavor of fats and familiarity.
This particular flesh must have been an athletic one
For my mouth swirls their juices with utmost clarity.
The foundation of a round ceramic, hot sauce, and flour,
And TV commercial, protein supply, and low price
Make it hard to see that my Monday meal I will devour
Was an active, responsive form of skeletal life.
The merchant’s voice is louder than yesterday’s whimpering lungs.
We call it free range as if a hen man raised is not a hen.
And our instincts hide in the anemones of our tongue
Because pleasure soon beats pleasure then.
Ergo, dead carcass now settles in my stomach—
Chewed remains of a once hairy, bloody corpse,
And yet, with death inside me, for a satisfaction summit,
I expect to live and for the everflow to run its course.
Though if I remove the sundress of my lady’s body upper,
And peel the hair and skin off her gentle brawn,
And cook with olive oil her chopped flesh for supper,
I wouldn’t tell the difference between salted beef and a wife gone.
Tell me a drumstick looks not like your thumb.
Tell me the cow does not prefer slaughter.
They speak a different language that my world numbs
But if anyone will understand, it will be our daughter’s daughters.
With a rope, we watched the backs of men get whipped as slaves
And it was too ancient to question any wrong.
With a fork, we masticate substance best suited for a grave
And it is too modern to question any wrong.

From the book, Can I Tell You Something?
Copyright © 2020 by Karl Kristian Flores.