A meeting of minds as well



A Meeting of Straying Minds

Love is knowing (sort of)
that when I, the vegetarian for many years, grow even more
decrepit, forgetful, blind,
you, who have never
truly understood beans,
will not feed me meat.

It’s a pact that I’ve repeatedly
extracted—”you promise,” I say, nearly
tearful, and you reply, blushingly, yes, no,
of course not
, so I’m pretty clear
that even as you too grow old, you will not
slop me into a chair with your extra chop
at my chin–

But what worries suddenly
is me:
that, after decades of non-carnivorous cravings,
I will slaver, in my senility, for
a sliver of your sirloin.

At first, you will saw the cuts with resistance, your elbow
blocking my claw, but, as I whimper, you just might,
in some trumped-up trompe mind’s l’oeil,
excuse the bloody bits as for my good, a poor
woman’s Procrit,
and, careful to whittle…

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