Thrift is the animal whose every part
is put to use: its singed hairs for the brush,
its hide for the switch and for the wine sac.
Meat is merely the name we give to pieces
we’ve quartered and boiled, to fill the hunger
in our bellies. No blood is wasted, either—
clotted then forced back into miles of clean
membrane. Meanwhile, the glinting geodes
of liver and spleen, white-marbled, slick-
roped insides are dense with prophesy.
Did you lop off and tie with crimson a small
gift for the gods? Watch what clouds suspend
in the depths of your bowl of broth. They’re
always watching, always hungrier than we are.