I peel the Yukon out of itself and 

I tell you I’ve never reached this 

caliber of cadaver, though none

of it is true, the sitting, the 

wandering, the waiting for time to 

round out the teeth of a knife into a 

harmless mound of American

Butter. One vast, weaponless 

mouth. Now you notice that even

the fish carved in the oak table 

was modeled after a discontinued 

plastic toy whose belly had been 

pumped three times over with

tap water like a dispensable 

beast. I know 

that disappoints you, so 

you’re eyeing my Yukon again, 

embellished with every product of

the ground, born from every steel

vat, I’m telling you, three hundred liters 

of flavoring you can’t find off 

the shelves. Out of my hand, 

a salt shaker trembles and seasons 

the grass, the air. Earth

populates with salt flowers.