Call it a sheep, call it a cow, serve it
with raisins and a little salt. Inﬂate
the casing with a forearm, yours or
your mother's, blend one serum
with another, commingle with
the animals. The stuff inside us
has a residue, something that sticks
to the ﬁlter-rib, the plane tickets
and palm trees, the champagne
in the bony ﬂute.
Ask your mother who still,
one year later, is on the steroids,
still has that cough. Boil pudding.
Get angry. Slaughter collected
in an earth-bucket, a hair ﬂoating
on the top. You'll think it's horse,
but you'll be wrong. Here, we are not
permitted to ride what we eat.
Hold her hand, watch her
shiver beneath the blankets. Remember
the buttery white sauce and plenty
of pepper. This is common,
our tradition, our slow coming
to the table, hands clean, blood