raw liver in the living room       mama sends it back to the butcher       tell him to cut it some more       makes
a c with her hands       careful mama       i point to the blade between her toes       she handles the sharpener
like she could run a poultry shop       i separate the meat into ziplocs       the marker slipping with my
sloppy handwriting       when i was young i would only label the bags       flick the skinny flesh       now i
could strip the fat off the cow’s thighs       i could watch asees flap the intestines in my face       leave them
folded in the driveway       mama and i readying the translucent tarp early morning pushing the furniture
to the wall       the dining table right under the tv       where papa squeezes lemon onto the liver       mama’s
oldest recipe       she’s mincing mutton      running it pink and noodle      once bleating in the backyard     
tonguing my palm bare       faryal pokes her head in the doorway       pinching her nose       is it done yet      
nimrah mourns in the bedroom       the butchers wanting tea and halwa puri       i smell them smoking in
the driveway       carrying meat over to the neighbors       all of them swatting flies off plastic stools      
running the hose into red gutters       some of them still circling the animal       rope ready      saima aunty
says eid mubarak says her butcher’s too slow       she’ll send ours soon       i say thank you blood pooling
in my slippers in my blood in my slippers       i see myself in the balcony       wincing and running inside
and calling the spasming       but mama the cow’s still alive