I lift the little body from the tile,
wrap it with white butcher paper, masking tape.
I roll him up and roll with him.
We’re sticking to different sides
of the paper, both covered in my parts.
I’m tired, it’s cold and I need to do laundry.
There’s a 30-day money back guarantee
At the meat counter of Lucky’s,
they never open the paper to see
what’s inside. A bad roast, left out too long.
Just apologize and hand you cash.
Did it matter if the eyes were closed
or open? Crooked honey spine, little pink
pork knuckle, curled into itself. How many
people have I kissed, how many strangers
in the last year, and now this one, taking
up the whole bathroom, all my air and blood
for nothing, for smeared red thighs, dinner
for the butcher’s dogs. Kettle of pain in my knees,
scrubbing my insides from grout lines.