Red faces drooling over the table,
and nearby, basting, shoulders hanging loose,
the turkey time displaces, unable
to save itself, and my neck is a noose.
My morals cling to umbilical cords,
unstable. Bells ring that I should stick to
green veg playing chicken on chopping boards,
fumbling round fat and wild slaughterhouse goo.
It’s Christmas, and mouths stuffed silently bleed
thick gravy over worn out serving spoons,
make spaces for empty wastes that they need
to later dance, dolled up in poultry wounds,
and vulture the corpse they’ve misunderstood
– the anxious artifice sweats soya blood.