a literary journal

POETRY

The steak's not what gave you food poisoning


 

A slab of steak slipped from my sweaty hands

Several months ago.

You crowded around it like ants as I

Feverishly grabbed at my story to slap it

Back onto the same plate I gave to the law.


It’s been there a while so you start chewing 

At the meat of my story hoping to find

Lumps of fat among salt and sinew.

You wait till my face is turned before

You spit it back and recoil, withdraw.


“You could have cooked it differently.

You could have. 

I don’t know - you could have presented it

With a sprig of rosemary suffocated against

The side of the plate everyone saw.”


[What you mean by your unpalatable metaphor

Is that the steak, so to speak, is a person who

Fell over with their hands bleeding and had to be

Given a man’s clothes to cover herself

And since then acquainted themselves with

A special toilet fit for Queens to stick heaving head into

Every time she was reminded of it

Through brutal words and scenes and glances.

And she stuck her head in six times a day

But sure, you have food poisoning.] 


So - I never thought when I served it

How it would look because my god -

It was reeking out my fridge, I could not

Breathe every time I opened it. I could not

Just sit and watch it bleed and thaw.


I understand it is revolting. That it stinks

And that I salted it and -

“My god, girl, stop FEELING so much

So much, for so long - my god, girl

You should be grateful I tasted it at all.”


I understand. Maybe it is raw and puss filled and 

You feel that now is a time to point out 

How pooling congealed blood is unattractive

But the little content warning card by the plate

Had told you: this was rotten meat, and my pall. 


And if you recall the minutes before 

I dropped it before you - You will remember

And see the little gouges on the meat

Where I had attempted, so hard, to cling -

Because I never said yes to either fall. 


And I do not recall asking you to eat it, 

You just sat at the table, didn’t you? 

And, smackingly, tried to taste it while it was hot.

But I never offered you a gourmet meal

I never asked for a curtain call.