What’s the point of a liver?
A lung?
A kidney?
A heart?

They are insides
Innards
Entrails

And I will eat them
And spread them on my toast
Like pate
Make a meat pie
With a good crust
Alongside a pint of stout

Or I will feed them to my cats
In bite sized kibbles.

I will make gravy!
Thick and creamy
And pour it all over
My mashed potato heart
Beating, pumping in sweet talk
Pushing out salty tears

Slice open my thumb
While peeling onions
The skin opening, revealing the perfect accompaniment to
Roast Chicken

A train of thought passes quickly
Like poison, racing green with envy
Or ivy, creeping up branches and bark,
Tips to toes
Leaves to roots, shoots
Snaking its way up
Twisting and curling
Tightening its grip.

What is it?
This
These organs are just offal
Cheap cuts
The leftover pieces on a butcher’s block
The liver, the lungs, a kidney, a heart
That nobody wants.

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