In the kitchen, tearing up jackfruit

Photo by Bekky Bekks on Unsplash

In the kitchen, tearing up jackfruit with my bare hands
for the sandwiches,
I think of meat (which I don’t eat) of flesh; of pork, pigs —
dogs: I think of you.

I think of your flesh; I wonder: did it look like this,
in death, in the flames?

I wonder: did you feel the fire, when your body
was consumed by it?

I wonder: would you forgive me for throwing you out
like trash, to be burned?

I wonder: is there anything left of you in this
box of carbon?

I wonder: can you feel the way you are missed each day
by those whom you left?

I wonder: would you have preferred to stay here, to fight,
in pain, together?

I wonder: I wonder: I wonder: wonder: wonder:

until it breaks down,
until it lacks sense,
until I don’t know
what meaning it has
to wonder at all.

In the kitchen, tearing up jackfruit with my bare hands
for the sandwiches,
I turn off my mind, I walk…