Platters

by Jill J. Tan

It is me

I am the thing that smells like garlic 

Bouquet garni innerself 

emanating from uncut fingernails

having worked an hour too long

on another’s creation

I cut apples, skin

still soft, unworked

The hands you called privileged

scalded and scored

now taking hold of the jugular

cracking down bone-deep into porcine regret

I am revulsed by this work 

the indelible scent and slow-fading burn

grease-fogged cheek and aching feet

At the end of the day there is food

Not for me, or you,

but for the table.