Meat by Mary Johnston

​Clara gets a kick from those trips to the meat man,
mister butcher man,
a bit too much of a kick I think.
Frank, the meat man, the meat cutter,
that devil,
cutting chops and chickens, hack hack,
as Clara looks hungrily over the edge
of the meat counter
and Frank cocks a careful eye
in her direction.

Clack clack go Clara’s teeth on blood red meat,
her shiny red lips smacking and lapping up grease
and gristle and guts (my mother likes blood),
while my father grinds away in silent rebuke
against the grain
of his well done piece of steak.
It’s the only way he’ll have it.

Frank, that devil, that expert
in matters of meat,
sharpens his edge
and strokes his bloody apron.