Enter the house where nature lies still.
Where it’s pinned to the platter
prepared to my order.
Ignore the soft smell of the flowers
from where they crowd around the door
stuffed in pots and hanging from wires.
Pulled up from their roots
slowly dying but their bursts of colors are so bright.
Stride straight for the stink of fish
My nose crinkles but my stomach growls.
Limp limbs dangle over a box’s edge
Pickled or drowned, dried or parched
Sliced or cut, wrapped or suffocated.
My mouth starts to water.
It’s bloody red and I can already smell it
cooking in my pan.
Dissected into a hundred parts.
Strung upside down
hooked through where its heart once sat
beating and warm.
I could buy that too.
My skin prickles with the cold
Ice piles high as tiny glaciers behind glass
Vacant eyes peer out from within those hills
Stacked on top one another
Hear the sizzle of frying oil without the stove.
Whirring machines slice a thousand cuts
for the people waiting in line.
The sound makes a rhythm over
the constant hum of coolers.
Impatient fingers tap at that cool glass.
Chop, chop, chop off just a bit more.
There’s only spit on my tongue
but the phantom
can taste just as good.
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