Confluence (3)

This is the last (graphic) anti-carnivore poem. I swear.






I don’t eat chicken anymore. But not because of the one experience that
made me swear off meat. There were no sheets dark-stained slaughter red,
a favorite horse’s head sharing the pillow beside me. No off-color piece of mystery
meat found in a hot dog lovingly slathered with mustard, onions, and relish.
There were no stray flecks of bone discovered half-ground in a crispy brown
nugget of spicy sausage. It is inexplicable why now my stomach turns uncertain
at the whiff of seared flesh and rendered fat. My return to the herd, grazing happily
on tender shoots, greenly succulent forage, is almost complete. I don’t eat pork,
or beef or seafood. I don’t eat chicken. I dream of fistfuls of bitter greens
drizzled in limey translucent olive oil, the weighty meat of a garbanzo. I lust after
the glorious earthiness of a tomato, its claret flesh tearing under my teeth.


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