I used to think the saying went:
“How to make ends meat,” like
something you’d throw in a stew
because if you worked hard enough
you could scrape together enough
to buy beef parts or the legs of chickens.
These were the ends of the meat.
I felt a little bad for the snap-necked
chickens, but mostly I felt like She-Ra
with the power of Grayskull and protein
inside me. I didn’t even like meat
that much, it was tough to chew
and inconsistent as my mother’s men.
But our once-a-week meat night
was a window to the dream, so we
had to finish all our meat before we could
eat bread. I remember thinking
about my mom working hard for the dentist,
staying late to scrub teeth
and then also cleaning homes on the side
(sometimes she was a night-time
bookkeeper). I remember a grisly piece
of meat sticking in my teeth wishing she
hadn’t wasted her nights for this –
that if we couldn’t have front meat
what was the point in trying?
Poem of the Week
Story of the Week
Most Popular Article of Issue 54
The Aspiring Writer 33: William Taylor Jr.:
by Chris Lambert
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