I promise that I’ll stop at this…..no more meat poems….
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
I liked leaving a disc of breath on the glass.