(after Han Kang)



It makes perfect sense, really

to make the most of this body

before the rot sets in. Maybe
a premature sky burial, and who better

than the ghost in this deadbeat machine

to preside as chef de cuisine. I propose
starting with the shoulders, so achy

after so many years of drudgery. Recipe

for pork shoulder steak should do, us humans
so comparable to pigs. Braise or roast? I don’t

have a Dutch oven, so it’ll be smoke. Indeed

years of smoking may have prepared my meat, alas
I could only afford the cheapest tobacco these past

few years. Poverty and overwork are truly

key ingredients for this auto-feast. For Entrée 
I’ll crack my skull against the wall — in the absence

of a reciprocating saw, something else I could never

afford. I shall do the right thing, soak the brains
to purge them of blood. Dessert? I’ll stab and tear

into my upper stomach to extract a liver

which is no doubt fatty, courtesy of decades
of alcohol abuse, courtesy of even more decades

of life in an unliveable world. I’ll make foie

gras donuts and will serve all three courses
with goblets of thinned blood and piss. I’ll propose

a pre-dinner prayer to the god of capital and democracy

before my disembowelled corpse grins and digs in.