dinner after daffodils under dim 

amber point of view. five golden glowing yolks

to find a furrowed brow

there is the right amount of blood today

ripe, rare, raw. enough salt for sugar, enough liquor

to blush. you don’t have to feel sorry – it doesn’t matter – it’s too late

they say oysters feel no pain, and as for the cow, that field 

seems so far away now anyway 

time gives the wine its legs, cheese its flavor, turns veal

to beef. time: enemy to hunger

satiation, gratification. 

i recall 

the properties of patience, promiscuity; 

the consequences of flesh too tender. i know about 

the obscenity of your abstinence.

if only there were another way – meat with no cruelty – 

but i know you 

recall rack of ribs beneath your palm, divining;

your thumb atop crooked teeth. you don’t have to feel sorry.

there’s no pain involved

abstain, abstain. i bleed either way, and

i know you recall

your time with the knife, too. you don’t 

have to feel sorry. you don’t

have to pretend that hunger evades you. 

you have and will want more