Plump

Pisces season, leap year’s eve
the day i learned to properly cut a chicken
to sit the plump thing down
after treating it with paper towels
the boning knife felt right
its weight and precision
balanced well in my right hand
even though i pricked myself slightly
barely any blood
much like the chicken i was given
only a slight sheath of blood
compared to some of the others
i removed the wishbone
little tears of meat clinging to it
made the next marks on the body
searching for treasures under the skin
the color of raw meat is Piscean
violet, scarlet, and ivory
cloaked in a thin skin
the last materials of life
so sumptuous and shiny
the way it shines is Piscean
a wetness that only comes
when the barrier of life is taken away
nothing more to hide
everything laid bare
knife probing for secrets
in the pit of the carcass
the aroma of baked bones fills the room
something of a reminder
that this raw, wet processing
yields a delicious stock in a bath of spices
my own feelings coming in waves
knowing ten years ago
another me would have declined
a chance to learn the weight of the knife
the sobering reality never changed
all those things i fought with abstinence
still deteriorating the earth
its thrilling that we have so much open space
with all the killing we must do
to keep ourselves so plump

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