The Butcher


This is how my father dresses meat,
he would carelessly place it on his chopping slab/raise his knife to it/and go,
chop chop chop

flipping it every time to make them pot-size chunks/he is careful not to cut his thumb/
he is not careful about the meat/it is meat/when he meets bone
he swipes his knife for a cutlass/this time he adds a little energy to his arm/lifts it a little higher too,
chop chop chop

flipping it every time to make them pot-size chunks/he does not control the bits that drop off
the neighbor’s scrawny dog can have them/he lifts both arms when the bones become too much
hits a particular point and stays on it/gives it a dent for emphasis
lifts the meat and the bone/with a crease on his brows
he mutters do you have any idea how long I have been chopping meat,
chop chop chop

he is careful not to destroy his slab/he will need it again,
chop

he is done/he wipes his brows absentmindedly/then his bloodied hands on his apron
offers the finely chopped meat to my mother/with a smirk and this meat is yours now
she is his only customer.

I am the meat.

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