After Sabbath

I look through the water into the sink’s belly
at the leftovers from lunch:

chicken necks, fat, and skin. Yesterday, I stood
in front of the mirror, touched my neck, wondered

where the slit would be if I was in the slaughterhouse,
tracing my veins as steam filled my throat.

I am thin, my neck like a bird’s, my voice
like a bird’s, high-pitched, urgent. No one

but earthworms want my flesh. I’m scrubbing
the fat from the forks. Water alone won’t clean it.

 

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