I could bone up, be the right man for that one-man job,hang by its hocks a rabbit shucked from the jacketof its black-bristled fur and still talking in twitches.As well, I might grasp the particular way he swings
a cleaver, brings it down on a neck like a primitive.More to the point, I'd learn to move the beak of my bladeinto the fragrance of a flank, or browse apart a chest'scardiac leafage, my white apron a blotchwork of blood.
I'd like to pickle ox tongue and pig feet, screw lidson sheep tripe and calf brain, set out jars like indicesto carcasses unpacked like suitcases. Striated and plush,crewelworked with fat and grosgrained with gristle,
meat is not semblance, meat is baroque. That said,I'd love to break back the pages of a shank and read all day.Tales about the flex and kick, the squawk and gackof things in pens: grass-nipping goats, had-been hens,
hogs which nuzzled mud and snorkelled its odoursuntil their plug was pulled and the spinning gearsstilled to small organs, organs I'd like to disinter and wrap,risen again inside the pink of new paper skin.
