2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4

Butchery of the Human Heart

by ANDREW MICHAEL ROBERTS

You come to me in need

of meat, pouty-lipped, polyestered

breasts pressed against the nippy

glass case, pound of tripe riding

the scale. All fist and forearm,

apron-stained, I am nothing to you—

a scrap. A skin. Offal of lust.

I am giblets and gristle—speech-

less, spineless: knuckle, brisket.

I am nameless, nauseous, the gross weight

of your careless stare heaved

upon my sternum as I

breathe to speak. My heart-meat

pierced by love. Gushing you. Gush. Gush.

But you will never know me. No—

I'll wrap and tape your pile

of tripe, my sweetmeat, and wait

to grind my fist to a nub

until you're out of sight

and can't hear me scream.