bovine and mammal chunks sawn in abundance, not of Adam’s rib,
but rib-caged. ancestor stone tools break into long bones of scavenged
prey, a firework of blood and bone fragments.
note the absence of blood in shrink-wrapped packaging.
slurp broth with a wide-bowl spoon, globules of fat coat lips, chins,
in shiny, succulent sauce.
the bone saw is hidden on back counters in butcher shops.
white lambs may have been black, could even have been purple,
or green before they are skinned, but the bones are always white. always.
my aunt always had a cow named, Bessie. I thought all cows were named
Bessie, a name given by Adam in the Bible, that my aunt was not facetious
when she said she loved her cow, Bessie.
my aunt added rice to her beef and barley soup. the rice and the barley stuck
in the molars farthest back in my mouth, the beef between my teeth. Auntie said,
Bessie, my love, you mighta been old and chewy, but you’s still awful tasty.
in China, semi-liquid pig marrow is sucked out of their tibia bones with a straw.
in my mind, Porky Pig waves, stammers, Bu-de-bu-de-That’s all, folks!
when they slurp the last of the yellow blobs.
my aunt sold the latest Bessie with the farm to move to the nursing home.
I wonder who will eat her, if it’s her flank I put in my grocery cart priced
low for quick sale. only good till the end of today.
I wonder, where do all the other bones go; do I want to know?
Crystal Snoddon is a Canadian writer whose poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net. Forthcoming and previous poetry can be found in Figroot Press, New Verse News, Slamchop, Anti-Herion Chic, among others.