Hunting

Hunting

Prime is the best, she said, referring to meat–

the marbled fat external: to be devoured

and render the internal juicy-fruit accessible­–

as though she would never be spayed in a cage,

prodded to produce mammary novelties

for beefy beast-children, before her slaughter.

Avian spectators, proud to have devoured

the remains of our mother, appetite a cage

of alarming carnage and keyed with slaughter.

Yes, the keys are beaks and claws with novelties

like lungs and balls of eyes readily accessed

if you can fly to achieve rot: precious meat.

Oh, how silver wires cross the sky in a cage

pleasing her and I with visual novelties

of enslavement to the production of meat

while humans are equally accessible.

Of course, her burning blue eyes justly slaughter,

just as my fevered lips women’s meat devour.

Now she’s left; my memories are novelties:

alive, laid on fire, and too accessible.
I ought to be prime so I could be devoured

in pointillism, for section and slaughter.
Alas, I’ll be with vultures huffing for meat

escaped from hellish knives: fruit out of the cage.

Day kills competition accessible

to the cuisine I’ve found; someone’s slaughter.

As if insects obey the sunlight’s cage

and respect their moon-darkened meal of meat

rolled into shit by the time they’re devoured.

Dried, I sell them in bulk as novelties.

Alone, I’ll watch and wait for still-slaughter

like birthing without death: cycle of meat.

Where new nutrients are gored novelties

and emptied into my stream, once devoured.

Alone, I found round keys for a square cage

that made my mind’s blue waves accessible.

Together we devoured us, the novelties

of a cage of anonymity, accessible

to slaughter us if we’re the right cut of meat. 

-Grant Durando