Gwyn McVay
We Too Sing America

Satisfied with gristle and scrap
We come for your grease, for your gutted carcass

Leave the fat, it cushions the loss
of this time of year, say the Drifters,

who keen from your stereo I-yi-yi-I'm dreaming
of next year's feast, but the delicate membrane

between rib & rib is tasty,
dried sinew & tendon snug between thigh
& flank tastes good to us

Leave the dishes alone, we will make short work
of your long hamhock--You thought to make stew

but in the dark kitchen the only now
is gnawing the animal's sense of self

down to the marrow your dog paws for
in the trash, where the treetops glisten