It Eats You Too

Fresh meat is dark burgundy, almost purple. It lives inside a breathing animal, until death, when it is hit by oxygen, and turns bright cherry red. After a few hours the oxygen and the bright fluorescent lights of a deli display will turn it brown, then grey. 

Lights come from every angle to banish unflattering shadows. She kneels on a stage tacky with sweat and spilled drinks. Beyond the lights are grabbing fists, “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”s, the Costco cashiers eyes she will make contact with the next time she needs milk. A murder of hands reach out to pull her apart like a wishbone. She spins like a rotisserie chicken. 

They say a hen who loses her head will still run. This mania is short lived and gives way to seizures. Then the body is baptized in boiling water. It goes in a machine where hundreds of prodding rubber fingers tear out each feather in its angel wings. It becomes meat in an inconvenient shape. The first step to cutting a bird apart is spreading the legs. Bending the hip joint the wrong way strains the tendons that become rubber bands snapping to reveal the startled femur. Cuts are made at the seams. 

Anyone who knows Les Miserables will recognize Fantine. Her long hair cut and her teeth pried out like pearls from a screaming oyster. Out of desperation she sells these things, giving them to men, who buy and claim ownership over her phantom limbs. Half her head is missing. The martyred mother rises on the third day to walk the streets again. 

Brown meat isn’t brown, it’s grey.

Its vibrance dissipates on display. We feed the dead meat red dye and give it back its life. We make it look appetizing. We put the blush on. 

Her mascara is running. She wipes her face with the inside of her naked wrist. Glitter mixes with the mess. There’s still two hours left in her shift. 

There are several different ways to give the meat back its red. The tamer options are cherry and tomato extracts. It is anything from granulated pork blood to Red #40. Gray squiggles of hamburger are dressed in pink, but cut them open and you will see death.

“She was starving, so it was easy.” His teeth are cleaner than they should be. He takes a swig of his beer as billiard balls clack in the background. “Me and my buddies threw some money down when we were done. I did her a favor. Look-” He sets the bottle down, holding his hands palms up like a sinner in supplication. “If you see a chicken, kill it, eat it, and pay the owner, did you really do anything wrong? It’s not much different than paying first. The chicken is still dead.”

Grey meat isn’t grey, it’s ash.

So dry it sticks together in your mouth and forms a clump in your throat. You think you saw a video on how to do the Heimlich once. You were never strong enough to stop this. Your lungs rebel against the death you swallowed knowingly. As you fall to your knees your face turns burgundy, almost purple.

Mary Moeller lives in gay Mecca with her future wife and furry daughter. She did not study writing like so many wonderful authors do, and for her job she runs numbers. At times she grows plants, and always she grows herself.