Meat Market

My grandmother was a butcher before she married my grandfather. A red-headed, glamorous butcher. A dichotomy. Handy though when it came to killing pigs on the farm and boiling trotters and making black puddings and sausages and brawn and a myriad of other unfashionable pig-products. Ever eaten a pig’s ear?




a fly shivering blue on curds of fat


heaving thud of meat on stone

head gone

skin gone

just peeled flesh

dark brown-red grained muscle

like striated ripples of rock on a cliff

cold dry fat thick against rump

ribs open reaching vacant

knife thin sharpened against stone

cleave between bones

crack bone from socket

glossed hip sphere perfect in hand



Filed under oddbods, poems, poetry, writing

7 responses to “Meat Market

  1. Blimey, this is wonderful! Your choice of words is so very evocative of butchery. x

  2. What a character to write about – a flame-haired female butcher from Big Wiggin! I can hear the sound of that carcass. Even ‘peeled flesh’ has an onomatopeia that is quite disturbing.

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