cutting board for meat

some of us have steak-knife aspirations.
my mother sits sharpening her set
& waits for a tow truck 
to lift the dead whale from the yard.
we used to eat pork chops
like flip-flops. i lay down 
on the designated plank where
all chicken are supposed to be quartered.
the farm spread like a virus
from the garage to the basement & up
behind our eyes. red glowing morning.
watch my breasts become 
main dishes. a fork on the bed stand.
passing the last tulip 
from mouth to mouth. i am full as a well.
i am stuffed with bread crusts 
& fever, trying to sweat out 
this radio sadness. i have tried
so hard to be edible. i have 
poured a canister of turmeric
down my throat & sang to lamp posts 
in the hopes you would see me
for what i am. you cook later
in the dim sunday moon. you eat
raw slivers. you know nothing
about my finger puppets. you wish
you could take the knife 
to my thigh. i am more than one
future platter. arrange the napkins
into a chin. the whale will make
a great stew. a potato saved
the marriage only one of us is dead.
i made a vase out of my skull
& used it for a tomato plant 
then carried it to your doorstep.
through each cherry tomato
i watch your ankles & your wrists.
all i've ever wanted was 
to be a knife stuck in a wall.
mother uses the whale bones
for soup. we cough up spoons.
you move on. you look for new recipes
& the pot boils over, musty
with carrots. the bed hardens with age.
ripening into a good torso.
who do you want me to be tomorrow?
i have enough muscle. what can i bring
to your open mouth? i have a shovel
to do the carrying.   

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