Fining Agents

I don’t mind

being

your mangled thing.

Your human

chunk of bone

and slime.

We both know you

could make me beautiful

if you tried.

You could crush me with grapes

beneath your feet until the fermenting

blood and yeast bubble together.

Your bare hands

could scoop out the insoluble

matter from the sieve:

The hair, the nails, the affection,

my oozing,

burning infection.

You could keep me in a jar

just to look at on occasion.

I wouldn't mind that life

as long as you can force

a smile

to pass over

the bottle’s glass each time

before I’m downed.

Alas, I know you’ve never been much

of a drinker.

The blood rising sulfites

and hangover of it all is too much

for people like us.

It's part of why I like you:

You and I have always chosen to die

of this gnawing life

the same exact way.

Not with a bottle to our lips,

but with a bit of gristle saved

beneath our tongues to

chew again later.