Written by R. Jay Hoffman
My body is in the kitchen
The butcher has my meat
to stab and slice
into more suitable bites
My shanks are weighed
My nerves are put on ice
My bones are beatsticks
My skull, a drum on which
They are played
My hands and feet are lopped
Sinew torn
Muscle filleted
My brain and blood bubbles
in a pot with my heart, liver,
lungs, and penis
The aroma is egregious
My eyes, left untouched,
watch memories
drop away rung by rung
from the ladder
In the misty presence
Before the air grows thin
with the impersistence
of murky matter
The butcher in the darkness
cleans and puts away his knives
and puts my eyes in a drawer
His murderous light
In me no longer glows
But after me there will be more
Text © R. Jay Hoffman
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