Laurie Ann Guerrero '08

Preparing the Tongue

In my hands it is cold as bone. Shrouded
in plastic, I unwind its leathery gauze,
and rub my wrist blue against the cactus
of its buds. Were it still connected
to its homely head, I'd want to nuzzle
it. Let it taste the oil of my skin, lick
the lash of my eye. What I do instead
is lacerate the muscle, tear the brick-thick
cud conductor in half to fit a ceramic red
pot. Its cry reaches me from some heap
of butchered heads as I hack away
like an axe murderer. I choke down
a bolus fit for a ruminant, add garlic.