lunch meat 

give me your all-the-time face.
i sliced my finger salami & you reached
to where the muscle meets sinew.
medallions & marrow. i watch my father
as he hovers over a bush of bologne roses.
petals & pearls. we would go to the market
where a man with a saw mill face
lifted cylinders of flesh. the cows 
who talked about the weather until
a bolt went through their brains.
last moments thinking about television
& ciruses. the saw mill faced man 
was once a cow as were you & i. 
you come & go. you promise this is not
the end but just where hunger takes us.
why does hunger lead us no where go?
do not trust my tongue. i am eating myself.
i have not swallowed meat in years but sometimes
i wake up with a sausage in between my teeth.
remember the pressure to be a hole.
his hands gliding meat across a blade. 
to come apart in petals. freshly dead. 
meat grinder. windows of fat. frilly dress
of the pastrami. sitting on my grandmother
as she becomes a thin cow. i lead her
to a lake of mirrors. we drink ourselves full.
i try not to remember everything to do with
how i learned i have a mouth. 
the man asking, "is this too thick?"
my grandmother asks, "could it be thinner?"
i think if it were any thinner
the meat would be a veil. salt & peppercorn.
he measures a pound. we take our 
body home wrapped in wax paper.