The table
it’s cold,
it’s hard,
it’s my final resting place.

My long neck lies stiff,
like a fallen tree on the driest day
in the African savannah.

Your knife pierces my skin
and glides down my neck,
that once grazed the highest leaves
and towered over lions.

Go ahead
cut me open
I give you my,
permission.

Cut me open,
I’ll share my history,
show you my ancestry,
tell you how I lived,
how I feed my young,
how I mated,
how I fought for them,
how I died.