I used to not care
if it was medium-rare
or well done
overcooked or undercooked
it didn’t really matter for as long
as it was fair
like salt spilled on Friday brings bad luck
porterhouse
ribeye
flank
those were the only choices I had
mignon
round
sirloin
skirt
chuck
depending on the parts chopped
at the right temperature
being the most crucial in this procedure
of choosing the right parts
from the population and yet
what choice did I ever have
unable to scrutinise its guts?
*
January – February 2023
***
Thank you for reading!
If you liked this poem, you can add your Insights, Comment, leave a Heart, Tip, Pledge, or Subscribe. I will appreciate any support you have shown for my work.
You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Mescaline Brisset on my Vocal profile. The art of creation never ends.
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
Where the wild roses grow full of words...
Keep reading
More stories from Moon Desert and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Devil's Cut
“Comrade, finally you’re awake.” The voice was smooth, sensual. A flickering incandescent bar was all that lit the white, sterile room. All Vladimir remembered was everything going black. He tried to move his arms and found them strapped to the gurney.
By Matthew J. Fromm6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This excellent work (and image) reminds me of when my Grandfather would take me to the meat shop. The floors were covered with sawdust to cover up the smell of meat. The butcher always gave the kids a free slice of bologna. I’d sit on a ledge in the window and watch cars go by as Grampy purchased dinner. It was awesome! One of my favourite memories. I’m a vegetarian now, but I’m also a cook and just learned how to butcher a ribeye. I told Grampy and his eyes lit up. “Oh, really?”, He said. He is so proud and I’m proud for making him proud. 😂