Dead Meat

Cut into bits, the muscles drip and drip
Pools of blood plated on polystyrene.
The transparent film holding them down sips
The liquid staining its color, its sheen
Of glossy plastic sitting so serene
As if vacuum-sealed for silent repose.
The slivers of corpse will become cuisine
When in consumer hands, and so it goes.
The wrapping will be sliced. It will expose
The limp, artuated lumps of tissue
That, in fresh air, begin to decompose,
Spoiling in refrigerated mildew.
They'll toss the flayed strips swiftly in pan heat,
Boiling and browning the sheets of dead meat.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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