To the Butcher

Receive me–carcass

wet, undressed–permit me

bleed the death out

so I might age again,

dry and on the hook.

Remember me–matured,

blooming after hours

in the cold–trace marbling

to my spine and in one

precise stroke, cleave my center.

I can tell from the way

you inspect me–

you’ve done this before.

Am I just another

of your prized birds?

Here I am, spatchcocked,

bare and on the block. As you

butcher me–wings and thighs

first, flipping and trimming–

keep a cut for yourself.