Monday Night's Dump

Carnivore Morality


A massacre hidden in my grocery bag
is not condemned. The guile with which
we reconcile our appetites demands

no hosanna. We've calculated and confirmed
the delusion of prime position we defend.
A steak cut from the hind quarter tastes

marvelous unwrapped from cellophane.
Wouldn't every beast do the same? Could
vegetarian be another name for heretic?

We want to do right . . . gracious
in our roost, with the oven cresting 400,
we feed the small leper of conscience.

Exile, you deserve solace and spinach
salad, penance in the night's gurgle . . .
antacid for the spirits ripped from

the flesh that sustains us. Tuna in
tin never swims far in the sea
of justification. This righteous

fret finds voice in the checkout line,
and dwindles at the choice of debit or credit.