The Carvery

I can’t blame you.
I climbed up on that table by myself,
knowing you held knives,
full aware of your skill.
Here I lay, eyes wide open
as you inspect me critically,
calculatingly, cold-bloodedly,
before running the tip of a blade
delicately – though you disclaim that art –
from jaw to hipbone,
never breaking open a single epidural cell
but marking with your practiced eye
the line that you will flitch.
I will not flinch.
I knew what I signed on for.
You need the nourishment
so carve away.
I won’t complain,
even as you toss aside
the parts you need the most,
consuming only those bits
easily digested.