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.
