poem in the fridge
for Sarah St Vincent Welch
things opened are in here
the can of worms, the ointment fly
stool samples, acid trips, specimens
all sorts, oh and did I mention dinner?
voice says ‘we are your dead in here’
the feast preserved , slow cultures
cut off from nature
thing that could bite once
‘we go through your guts in time’
each packet bears its epitaph
and one day rise to justice?
dark thoughts when the door is shut
so all we meat must fear