The Meal

You no longer hiss within me like a pressure cooker.
The safety valve blew out.
Your pieces scattered all throughout me
Cooked with bay leaf, onions,
And other bittersweet herbs
Which we kept adding together.
Ripped to pieces as you are,
I’m putting you on ice
To preserve you for some other day
When I have no fresh food,
No greens on my plate,
Some young boy so easy to digest.
I’ll peek into a freezer then,
Take you out and defrost
And then heat you up over low fire
Until you start giving off
Your warm, familiar smell
That gives no headache
Only that heavy feeling leftovers give
After being heated too many times
And eaten day after day.
But there’s a cure for that.
I could offer you to someone else
Who has a tough stomach and is not picky.
At long last, I’ll set you outside my door.
Let that ass–wiggling slut sample you,
The one who has been hanging around
My house for some time.