cock pot guts

i don't know how anyone finds 
the time to chew their food. instead,
i swallow things whole like
a fucking snake. i have seen my dad
unhinge his jaw when he gets home
from work. the factory is not just
a place but an entity that moved through him
into me. i find myself in boiling water
with the flesh falling off the bone.
tender as a flight of bird children. 
i do not know much about eating. i know
about parking lots & driving 
through a portal into another town
where the supermarket smells different.
i used to make a trek to the shoprite 
on the other side of the fork in the road.
left at the adult world & the fried chicken place.
rural pennsylvania is a place for 
people who carry forks in our purses.
we haven't really had a good meal in years.
the food turns to water. we drink.
my father was never good at making dinner.
instead, he took us to the tavern. 
i loved to sit at the bar & watch men
turn into turkeys. french fries & a sword
lodged in a stone. i draw a bath 
of beef broth. i put a bouillon cube 
on my tongue like communion. i get
a text that there is a church full 
of steak. we get there to find it empty.
nothing but the bones. we dig in the soil
until we find a time capsule full of 
trail mix it is enough for now. it is enough
to keep me from turning into a bagged lunch.
a sea gull dies mid flight. i bury her
& all the oceans she has.