I’ve been afforded too few opportunities
to prove I’m merciful. Carrying
carrot peels & broken arm-
fuls of eggshell to the compost heap,
albumen’s dregs iridescent in the glowering
sun, I call the millipedes that graze
their estuary of decay for dinner, rise,
eat. So logical, their little bodies,
concatenated & sable. The human head
keeps seeing twenty seconds after
being guillotined. I wonder if the basket
catching heads at executions ever gets reused,
holds folded towels in the guest bathroom
or stacks of canned sardines in the épicerie.
Fish don’t feel pain like we do, so
my friend scales & filets the pile of bluegill
in his truckbed while they’re still
mouthing their word for water. I watch
the knife divide the body like a loaf
splits into slices, so that everyone can eat.
Every time I smear my toast’s stoic face
with butter, I’m holding a blade
whose ancestors demanded sacrifices:
blood, skin to be woven, guts to be wound
across the gape of a lute. Justice
suggests I should subtract the plastic
bag’s weight when I place my haricots verts
on the grocer’s scale, but I pay anyway,
& take the bag home, where I use it
to pick dog shit off the lawn. Most days
I’m liable to waste hours watching videos
of animals being freed from barbed wire.
Poor possum, spitting like a grease fire, who
could blame you, turning back to bite
the hand that pulled you loose? The fence
did just what we meant it to do.