What’s at Steak

By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh

She keeps a cleaver,

Right next to the bedside table,

Underneath her pillow.

She has scrawled

My name,

On every inch of the blade.

She does her best.

She does her best to trim the fat,

To keep me clean,

To make sure I’m in good shape

And succulent, ready for eating.


We both know I’m no choice cut,

My flesh is gamy, hard to chew.

So strike with the tenderizer,

String me up on a butchers hook,

I’m just some hunk of meat.

Without you my corpuscles are rotten

And my sinews are obsolete.


Image by Benjamin Faust



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