Cleaving

Cleaving


“ And the man said:
This one, at last, is bone of my bone,
and flesh of my flesh;
this one will be called woman,
for she was taken from man.
This is why a man leaves his father and mother and bonds with his wife, and they become one flesh.”
Genesis 2:23-24


“An artist is someone who produces things that people don't need to have but that he - for some reason - thinks it would be a good idea to give them.”- Andy Warhol

Solemn passing the palate of meat lain
on the frost glazed counter, observing
the flabellum flanks inside out, the thighs
still bereft and de-boned, the chest cavities
excess ripped up, pressed flat, the vaginal
rarities exposed in the raw red gaze.

All the others, as I, so unsure
of how to discern through the cryptic
layers- the thin veins of white adipose
tissue and tinged muscular channels, pink;
and too, the precarious grain, the flecked
plastic, blood-dusted.
The foreign smell impressing us with
the metal pulse, taste seeping in to our
greedy tongues, saliva thick: characterized
with the opaque eyes, the clumsy, slow
motions necessitating assistance, the
craving impulse nagging.

In the halo-glow at the market-
sacred, superb, its divinity ours,
revealed kindly in pure entrails, visceral and used.

Patrons hoping, in thrall,
swaying gentle sometimes,
for now hung, balanced.