LEO HABER
Dry‑aged for three weeks or eight, hanging
in a refrigerated room, the moisture seeping out,
the body toughness crushed, this is about
dying, the kind of dying, the kind of mangling
that serves the greater good. O strong nutty
taste of porterhouse cooked on the juicy bone,
strips of sirloin with touch, tang, tone
of bloated beer halls, murderous men, slutty
women, a congeries of violences that no wisp
of lettuce or sprig of myrtle or faint smell
of garden fragrances could adequately address.
I sit congealed in my own juice; I lisp
in retching admiration of powers of hell
that order our lives and manage our daily mess.
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