some nights we put ourselves in voluntarily;
tuck and fold and all that’s good and safe.
and others we claw and pull our battered carcasses
(severed torsos, rotten carnage)
inch by inch toward the dark back room
where sleep never comes; just a savage pummeling
night after night.
one request: a glass of water and two aspirin;
a cup of soup and buttered toast.
“what’s in the trunk cabrón?”
oblivion.
oblivion is in the trunk.
if they should string us up by the ankles
and hang us upside down
above the abattoir floor, like sacred cows;
if they should come at us with sharp cold blades
and buckets to collect the blood neatly and orderly;
if they should sacrifice us for charity
i ask this:
make short lean cuts around the ribs
from top to bottom—seamless, sinewy inroads;
and sort out the bad parts, the putrid flesh, expired merchandise.
give all that to the dogs
(to Cerberus)
and ring the bells proper
as proper butchers would.
remember that.
