There’s the animal and its flesh.
At times interchangeable, but not quite the same.
Anglo-Saxon named the beasts, French their meat
At death do they part:
Beef from cow;
Venison from deer; pork from pig;
Mutton, sheep and Poultry, chicken.
At what point does man become spouse?
Poussin is a young chicken, fowl good enough
To feed two young lovers, on not much money,
Due to be wed in a few months;
Not fully committed to a fully grown bird.
Poisson is fish, salmon we buy every other week
Whenever we have extra cash or need a breather from the chicken’s–
Butterflied in Ziploc bags– rotten egg smell:
“Throw it out and order a pizza” is her solution to these odors of married life.
Pullet is a young hen.
“Pull it, and cut the wing off,” I insist.
Even in my mood– as our love grows old and the butter, brown–
I’m reminded of when I first loved her in the Tenderloin,
Nested near the San Francisco Bay,
When the thought of being only hers first crossed my mind.
Jose Oseguera is an LA-based writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. Having grown up in a diverse urban environment, Jose has always been interested in the people and places around him, and the stories that each of these has to share; those that often go untold.
His work has been featured in Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Rigorous, Sky Island Journal, Jelly Bucket, OTHER. Magazine, TOE GOOD, The Scene & Heard Journal, Zimbell House Publishing, and Authorship by The National Writers Association.
Featured image via PublicDomainPictures.net.
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