What do you think?
Rate this book
Good Meat
Good Meat is a collection of mostly observational poems that revolve around food -- more specifically, the varying complex relationships we have with the things we eat. In these poems, food feeds both disease and celebration, sometimes in the same breath. Whether we are eating out of necessity or pure desire, these poems have something to say about our most internal -- and often inexplicable -- impulses.
72 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 2006
23 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 26, 2022
i) find utensils that are sharp, reflect light.
make four deep cuts, scrape, sew.
for twelve hours, hold your hands over the heart,
will it autorhythmic. stew for ten years.
ii) import one heart from a northern stand
of pine. attach sensors that let the cook know
when it's done. remove each pine needle
one at a time. consume carefully.
iii) spice the blood with infection. over time
the arteries will become tender, collapsing
easily between your hands. easier
still to chew between sips of point pelee shiraz.
iv) relax the smooth muscles of the heart
with a dry rum of vasodilators. suspend
the marbled slab behind the teeth
of the ribs, wait forty years it to age,
sooner if the wait becomes unbearable.
* * *
she says that good meat comes
from the sky - pulled down with lead
shot aimed just right, accounting
for wing, rain and other suggestions
of nature. good meat comes warm.
she craves meat that is dark, still
encased in the skin
it was born into - eats every meal
as if it were her last.
in her sheath, a filet knife that bears
the cut of her sharpening stone.
the knife blissful when put to work,
thrust into flesh, separating life from food.
her forehead bears the mark
of the knife. unable to tell
what difference between
animal and woman, steel cuts both
with the same blind instinct.
* * *
sugar-coated pork chops
could never look as sweet
as you in a state
of late monday undress
my eyes
the eyes of a butcher
seeing dollar signs
at every blooming curve
* * *
she is freckled with blood
stands arms akimbo
dulled blade in hand
acting out
artistic ambition
she carves each fowl
into soft pink marble
ready for eager audiences
she knows how to work
content
the final product
and not the process and
it is art the feeds me
night after night
fresh from her blood-
crusted hand
again and again
she carves
out my heart
serves it to me
for twice the asking price
* * *
she says good meat comes wrapped
in shiny plastic:
supermarket-style.
does not come in cheap wax paper.
does not come salted, pickled, or brined.
she craves meat red with dye.
the deep freeze, filled with mislabelled packages,
stacked like bricks and mortared with ice.
it is a body waiting exhumation, piece by butchered piece:
devour whole. hip, flank, liver, heart. she will recreate.
good meat comes from experienced hands.
small capable hands dig deep.
hungry. she pulls out a thick slab of meat,
sears it black, stabs it with her fork -
the gentle give of flesh
satisfies entirely
in her mouth.
make four deep cuts, scrape, sew.
for twelve hours, hold your hands over the heart,
will it autorhythmic. stew for ten years.
ii) import one heart from a northern stand
of pine. attach sensors that let the cook know
when it's done. remove each pine needle
one at a time. consume carefully.
iii) spice the blood with infection. over time
the arteries will become tender, collapsing
easily between your hands. easier
still to chew between sips of point pelee shiraz.
iv) relax the smooth muscles of the heart
with a dry rum of vasodilators. suspend
the marbled slab behind the teeth
of the ribs, wait forty years it to age,
sooner if the wait becomes unbearable.
- four ways to serve heart, pg. 17
* * *
she says that good meat comes
from the sky - pulled down with lead
shot aimed just right, accounting
for wing, rain and other suggestions
of nature. good meat comes warm.
she craves meat that is dark, still
encased in the skin
it was born into - eats every meal
as if it were her last.
in her sheath, a filet knife that bears
the cut of her sharpening stone.
the knife blissful when put to work,
thrust into flesh, separating life from food.
her forehead bears the mark
of the knife. unable to tell
what difference between
animal and woman, steel cuts both
with the same blind instinct.
- good meat 2, pg. 25
* * *
sugar-coated pork chops
could never look as sweet
as you in a state
of late monday undress
my eyes
the eyes of a butcher
seeing dollar signs
at every blooming curve
- sweet meat, pg. 29
* * *
she is freckled with blood
stands arms akimbo
dulled blade in hand
acting out
artistic ambition
she carves each fowl
into soft pink marble
ready for eager audiences
she knows how to work
content
the final product
and not the process and
it is art the feeds me
night after night
fresh from her blood-
crusted hand
again and again
she carves
out my heart
serves it to me
for twice the asking price
- the chicken carver, pg. 42
* * *
she says good meat comes wrapped
in shiny plastic:
supermarket-style.
does not come in cheap wax paper.
does not come salted, pickled, or brined.
she craves meat red with dye.
the deep freeze, filled with mislabelled packages,
stacked like bricks and mortared with ice.
it is a body waiting exhumation, piece by butchered piece:
devour whole. hip, flank, liver, heart. she will recreate.
good meat comes from experienced hands.
small capable hands dig deep.
hungry. she pulls out a thick slab of meat,
sears it black, stabs it with her fork -
the gentle give of flesh
satisfies entirely
in her mouth.
- good meat, pg. 57
Displaying 1 of 1 review