I’m a yellow bird balanced on his rotisserie,
cock-eyed for your triglycerides.
I’m an ex-demo model upholstered
in the fatty jacket of his own tanned hide.
We cross the road and get to the other side.
In the dark you slip a finger in the box
of the tenderest punnet chicken in the car park.
I’m a passenger, I promise: I’m easy,
spread-eagled on my bed of self-salted lies.
I’m the only thing between you, the mirror,
and the shards-of-mirror bellyache of truth.
I’m the innermost matryoshka’s meat
in the turducken you’ll become when death
comes to tap-and-go your greasy thighs.
I’m the bin bag skeleton of childless night.
And when you find your transfat mind
carted off to landfill, make a sign
like a penitent and cut-stringed kite
swanning down the clouds’ unbroken pews
to let everybody know, filthy-fingered angel,
not every birdsong is as blue.
Pollo a la Brasa
1 May 2017