At The Meat Market

The crucifixion of my right arse cheek in its good place hanging up on high,
just dangling sort of, like meat about to be feasted upon by the masses.
While I smile, without showing my teeth, as always
it's all in the curve of the corresponding right side of my mouth,
climbing up a rope to it being all in the eyes.
Happy as they cut into my buttock, and feed themselves heartily
remarking how tasty, how organic, home grown, how the farmers would love it.
The kind you need a sprinkle of salt and pepper on,
and a nice, open air bonfire with which to roast it - all natural.
No by-products.
I just nod my head as each one tastes and marches on.
Some drop their napkin,
some angrily gnaw at my ass,
some don't say thank you or even look at me.
Some think it's all for them and hover, while others are patiently waiting in line.
My meat market crucifixion - one nail, one plump tail
and me smiling my good smile as they cannibalize me.
This streak of pain down my leg, it's moving on out,
so the next time they come around wanting to eat,
well
the empty, old cross with a rusty nail, bent into a V (for Victory!)
will be all that's left of me. 
They better learn to eat some other flesh instead.

M. Lucia