a thing so tender

i call your index, to trace my brisket body,
i slow-roasted myself juicy and sweet
and peeled my boon of steamed artichoke hearts.
watch, as my tender flesh falls with your touch,
  
your outstretched hands turn to fists beneath skin
        it all comes apart, tender as anything,
and you turn up your nose at soft flecks of meat
that cry out a requiem in one light squelch.
through chimney whispers, you tell me:

"I need bones that I can snap,
Bones that leave salted sharpness in my wake,

Nerve ridden ligaments that catch my teeth,
Like Cloth hooked in the woods,
its sweating vessel, still scrambling forth,

Savoury blood that rings a rusted bell with my Tongue,
A prey brittle and chewable, 
To scrape, sticky on my palate,

Not a thing so homogeneous, my dear.
Where's the fun in that?"

the steam of my patina feast
takes flight to the night air,
stars of merciless oil swoop inward,
winged scribes to pick and buzz
a stray swarm of cowards,
predator of my curdled meal discard.