Gnawing on a rib bone
Lamb lard,
thicker than shortening,
full of scent of prey,
squeezes from between my teeth,
slicks my lips
where it cools
and stiffens to tallow.
I roll my lips together,
spreading the ooze,
feel grease sweat
from the corners of my mouth
and slowly coat my chin.
I smear it with the back of my hand,
pretending I'm wiping it off,
but secretly spreading
the luxury to the edges of my cheeks,
over my upper lip
all the way to the tip of my nose.
I don't listen to the bleating
I hear in the back of my throat
I don't dwell on the liquid eyes,
rimmed in fluttering lashes.
The only liquid I crave is this fat,
this extacy of smear,
tender, smoky, savage scent
of force-fed, fattened lamb.
Sacrificed for my redemption,
crispy crusted succulence.
My body rejoices in this abundance,
this sacred ritual
of sated mouth.
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