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Kaijaii Gomez Wick

why i am not a vegetarian

i love meat, the death of it,
the blood on the plate, the salt
on the tongue, the heavy weight
of it in the belly. the way 'meat'
means 'substance,' 'real,' 'meaningful,'
'strong.' the tender of it, the red
melting on the tongue, the teeth
tearing, biting, skinning, ripping
it apart like an enemy, like a wolf,
silent and stalking as a jaguar.
gulping down hot, fatty chunks
choking, an anaconda about to burst.
i love the death of it,
the sacrifice in my mouth.
when precious things die for you,
you become a goddess. a prophet.
an angel, covered in juices,
moaning. feasting. ascending to heaven,
head lolling, after a food coma.
yes, yes, they were once alive,
and so was that salad, each leaf
burningly joyful. plants scream just
the same at their slaughterhouses.
if a lamb is going to die either way,
why not eat it, slather its belly
in mint jelly, bury your face in the fat,
drool, devour, gorge? what is the use
of a gaping maw and legs that can run
long after the prey's died of exhaustion
or dehydration if all you eat is that
which cannot run away from you?
yes, yes, eat the meat. all of it.
the flesh is delicious, the victory filling,
and the smell like home, home, home.

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