medium rare
Rupkatha Basu
i cooked a steak tonight.
watched blood pool on porcelain—
not blood, i told myself, just
the memory of veins. but it lingered,
thick as spit, red smearing my thumb
when i pressed too hard.
the knife slid in easy,
flesh parsing like it knew the ritual,
like the body it came from still waited
somewhere, altar-flat and breathless,
a sacrifice stripped clean of name.
is it veal? i asked the silence.
but who’s to say? the clinging
wrap whispers no truths,
and my own skin crawls
like it knows what it’s made of.
i seared it hot—sizzling skin,
the fat screaming as it met the flame.
the room filled with smoke, the scent
clinging to my hair, my teeth.
they say we are more than animals,
but tonight, i wasn’t sure. my teeth
tore through sinew the way they might
through a mother’s breast,
the way fire eats through a forest,
methodical and unrelenting.
i chewed slower...
i chewed,
and the world grew soft,
as if everything could be eaten,
as if every hymn ends in hunger.
i swallowed someone’s guilt,
and my question: whose body do we break
when no one is watching?
the bone-white porcelain gleams
like an offering dish. tomorrow,
i’ll call it dinner,
but tonight, it feels closer
to confession.
i wipe the grease
from my lips and wonder
what god tastes like.