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David Greenspan: American Mouth

October 27, 2014 by PBQ

The butcher is today thinking of knives.
     One to pull ligament from joint and joint from bone.
               One to carve muscle –
          this knife his favorite and often
the butcher finds himself aroused
               as he slices roast
               for Mrs. Glass. One to cleave
                    through gristle and scare teenagers.
               One to peel back skin.
                    This knife with a handle longer than blade
     is rarely used. The butcher’s customers
               prefer their meat wet with juice.
The butcher’s customers prefer their skin.
               The cutlet knife, the sharpener and many others.
          The butcher polishes his knives
     and thinks of nothing
               in particular – his shop, his hands,
                    the fleshy thighs on Mrs. Glass.
          It is early, before dawn even,
     as the butcher leaves his shop
               and walks to the dumpsters.
There, a dog stupid with grin.
          He calls it over with scraps
                    of yesterdays prime cut. Its neck
               raw and bruised. The dog eats
               as the butcher appraises it –
legs, haunches, shoulders, chest.
     Its chest terrible with too much skin.
                    It has not eaten in very long,
          the butcher thinks.
               My customers will not be satisfied, he thinks.
The dog vomits and the butcher walks away
               disappointed. He fingers his carving knife.
He thinks of four leaf clovers, salt,
                    anything that may bring luck.
               He walks away from the dog, its vomit,
     and digs the carving knife
     into his palm. There is blood
          and blood and nearby trucks
               begin their daily routes. Daylight
                    begins to polish the street
               and the butcher watches it all,
                    a strange prayer.

Filed Under: Contributors 90, Issue 90, Poetry, Poetry 90 Tagged With: Contributors 90, David Greenspan, Poetry, Poetry 90

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