for the butcher

i pull all the numbers
at the deli counter starting at 92.
little tabs of paper floating
to the white linoleum floor are like
dismantled insects.
i'm teaching my dog how to sleep
by laying face up 
& staring a hole into the ceiling.
i dream of buying turrets of salami.
all the meat for myself. my heart
is restless & watching a man 
slice the bologna. he moves his arm
back & forth across the slicer.
i tell him i want the meat thinner.
i want to hold the meat up
& be able to see him through it.
meat is always a kind of window.
a stained glass meat cathedral.
the body of jesus is a medallion of meat
now & for a limited time only.
a slice of my own skin unfurls 
from my face. i try to put it back
but the severing was so deliberate.
when daffodils bloom
they don't mean to return from it.
what kind of mountain will i bring
in exchange for this pickled tongue?
salt has cured everyone's sadness.
i prefer my salt crystal fine as sand 
but my mother buys crunchy large salt flakes.
i pour out all her salt in the yard
so i can begin the process
of preserving my hands.
in the street, goats are protesting 
the state of our country. they are begging 
everyone to stay in their homes.
their eyes fall out & turn to glass.
what better why to plead with us?
no one is talking about the butcher.
he loves me so much he would give me
all his cuts & all his fingers.
he leans over the counter. 
the world smells white. gloved hands.
tells me he has meat for me 
whatever i want. just ask. 
i laugh like a girl. a girl
peels out of me. she is all pale 
& sliced-chicken-faced. 
we sleep together in the back room
on a table meant for dismantling hogs.
not sex, just sleeping.
his soft dreaming weeping.
my knees on the metal table.