Feast

 Slowly smoke my flesh:

shoulders, chest, ribs,

rump. Once the meat is tender,

I bet it'll taste great

with any dry rub or sauce.

 

I've treated it well.

a family of four could live

off of me for at least a week.

I would keep them alive, save them with my

 

sacrifice. They'd have a twinge of guilt,

sure, as they salivated

over the scent of my supple flesh

slowly charring over the flame, locking in the juices.

But they'd enjoy it, they'd survive,

and I'd finally feel like my life meant something.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- January, 2018)

Is this poem exploring the exploitation of the worker's body in corrupt, capitalist societies, or did I just have too much to drink one night and start wondering what my thigh meat would taste like? It's up to the reader's own interpretation.