Holding the shape of the can, It is more edible the less it resembles meat.
Where I'd once looked for marbling, fresh redness, and bone,
I can stomach no carving, save this uniform pinkness that was once real meat.
We strike the balance, slicing thin, not mangling, sparing memories of brains.
We have seen too much carnage, too much tearing of skin from meat.
Craving protein, and sick of the taste of canned peanuts.
The whole city is a butcher shop, but now we are the sides of meat.
We dare not venture out. We see what has happened to the ones who've tried.
It is not said aloud. We dare not call them dead. It is too kind. They've become walking meat.
Sheltered below the theater, we empathize with the cattle we once consumed.
Reminisce about PETA propagandists, trying to guilt us into giving up meat.
We tell each other in Hawaii they love this stuff. We both know it already.
We dream we are there, insulated from this mess, that we could once again stomach meat.
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