The Stew

I am cut into pieces, boiling
in a stew. A quarter cup of the fingers have been
diced away along with
a chunk of the right breast,
both little toes,
the bones and muscle in the
right forearm, a kidney,
and the fallopian tubes.

Salt dances painfully on the wounds of
what remains of the body. I cry out for some relief!
There is nothing.
Anesthesia will not behave!

The stew boils about, my pieces
become soft and
flesh falls from bone. The crockpot screeches
with the heat – it knows!
But, I do not blame the crockpot. It
must perform it’s duty.
No choice for a hunk of metal!

I scream again! The pain! Where is comfort?
Where is solace?

Ah! Cooking wine!
Take care of my wounds.
Take the pain away…..
After some time, the alcohol performs it’s own duties.
I relax!

I hope the stew makes it to all those empty mouths!