I promise that I’ll stop at this… more meat poems….


Tripe Stall


She had a nice face the woman at the tripe stall.

A powdery-old coloured-in face: pink lips, green eyeshadow

all the way up to kohl-ed brows,

no hair there, just pencil marks.



I couldn’t see on top of the counter

but there were small wooden forks and a bottle of vinegar.

Just malt. Brown, nostril pricking malt.

I could see the bottle’s nubbled glass bottom.


I liked that counter: it leaned inwards

so that I could lean on it, forehead resting on its cool surface,

and be closer to the

honeycombed pieces of stomach

bleached fake white.

Fanned like concertina-ed paper decorations,

shivering in thick felted layers.

I wanted to touch it,

to place my palm flat and sink my hand into its cold deadness.


There was always a pie too,

heel and shin probably,

and a tray of black puddings,

skin stretched and dull half-polished

over cooked blood and nuggets of fat

like the black leather collars my grandfather used for his bulls.

I liked and the way the water boiled fatly around them

and the way they burst open at knife point

spilling innards.


I liked leaving a disc of breath on the glass.


Filed under oddbods, poems, poetry, writing

4 responses to “Tripe

  1. This is so unusual! I loved it.

  2. We don’t do tripe much here in the States, so I can’t relate shopping for it. I do understand the setting since I enjoy going to the larger farmer markets. There is so much for the senses to explore. Nicely done. And thanks for stopping by “Chocolate Fortune Cookies.”
    Blue Skies,

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