Feast, Beginning With A Kissed Blade

She comes from a farm down south. But it’s how 

 she’s butchered that’s important, not where she’s from. 

  In our Yonkers garage, wet heat, fleshed air, everyone’s elbows 

   knocking. Her tongue itchy-pink as my Eid dress. We do it 

    like in the bilad–—headlocked & frothed w/ sweeteners, silver blade 

     smooched w/ a bismillah, gullet sliced w/ thanks, w/ prayer. The lamb 

      gasps. My uncles yank hard to tear her pelt, white fluff snowing 

       our stratosphere. Same time last year, I walked onto a bus in Aden 

        completely garbed & still got pawed, still Lahm shabab, blessing 

         of young meat. They sing for her as she’s strung, long tongue limp, 

          unfurled. Big body swinging thick, dripping blood the cats lick. 

           Some leaks through the crack, a jogger prepped to call the cops 

            on his crazy neighbors. We eat her all week: kebab skewed 

             w/ bamboos, stewed w/ maraq, boiled broth for the babies 

              who forget the taste of pb & j, mac & cheese. Ribs noshed 

               to a needle to pluck her from our teeth. Fingers licked for 

                the extra memory. I swallow my share with a Wolverine 

                 frenzy, taste my uncles’ hands sifting through her like pearlers 

                  at the sea’s bottom, the gentle way they pull out purple-blue 

                   strings, glimmering glut, until only the empty mollusk remained. 

                    How does one unlearn gorging? Fat fingers pillaging piece 

                     by dutiful piece–—Abraham, arms raised, ready at the altar? 

                      We dress in sluiced lambskin, the dismembered carcass. Eyes 

                        a salty snack. Her hooves high-grade handles. Juicy pulp 

                         called tongue saved for dessert, that the men say tastes 

                          sweetest. Here, w/ them, is where I learn of appetite–—

               to savor the innocent, crave for the dead. They teach me 

                to bite life’s head off, eat my desires raw, let the spine 

                 of a slow creature prick down & relish it. Here is where 

                  I learn about the insides, how to open w/ a varnished 

                  grace. We skin the wild bull, wear its leather on our chests. 

                    Feather the wrangled quail like a quick weeded field. 

                     & when we slash throats, we don’t look into their 

                     glaring eyes, don’t ask forgive-ness.