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.