Dripping, creasing, greasepaint, powder, a long arch, and
a cigarette perched on red shellac lips,
she begins to speak—crashing against the rocks, the shore.
Our lady of blood and guts and vomit.
.
Beauty is
nothing very special—it comes
and it goes, and there is a pleasantness,
perhaps,
and perhaps you think about a fawn prancing about the woods,
or a vermillion mushroom, or the man who works at the coffee shop,
or your sister, or the moon, and perhaps,
perhaps,
for a moment you might feel as though something important has occurred
and doesn’t that feel
very very nice.
.
For a moment, all we can do is feel.
We sink our hands into the flesh,
the bones and blood, we claw into ourselves. And we are
bound to find an organ—a kidney, a liver, and it’s
bound to be sticky and pulsing and purplepinkredblue, and we are
bound to dislike it—put it back!—our closeness with
the small, crushed mound of fur, waiting on the side of the road
.
The clerk at the meat counter can’t be deceived.
She doesn’t accept counterfeits, and she knows which cut is what—
chuck round flank brisket ribs thigh sternum forearm knees fingers
—and the smell will not bother her. She knows it’s just
herself, and her sister, and the moon,
and fairy floss evaporates under a push-button faucet
or in a bed of vitreous china, cornflower mesh.
.
.
.