food
my mother kept a grinder in the kitchen
for breaking nuts, or making
sausage– I remember the feeling
of jamming pieces of meat
into the mouth of the machine,
watching as muscle, tendons
and the odd small bones were crushed,
feeling the resistance as the handle
paused until the harder bits would break.
Any path worth taking eventually
leads us to a grinder, tearing us gently
limb from limb, crushing
the harder bits, making sausage. They say
that space and time are one,
that this world of appearances is unbounded
and flowing. So I suppose
it’s still happening somewhere—somewhere
she still sits in a blue cotton dress
in a simple white kitchen in Detroit, still
slowly turns the handle,
feeling the resistance, then pausing
as the harder bits are broken,
still watches as muscles, tendons
and the odd small bones
are crushed beyond all recognition.
©jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com
Life, huh