journal for new poetry
Michael Conley
Meat Sofa
The best way to sit on the meat sofa is naked.
It warms to your particular temperature:
the sirloin cushions yield like the inside of a cheek
and the myoglobin stains your thighs
a pleasant pink blush. The meat is beef,
from massive bespoke cows. Surrender
to the dead hug of the meat sofa whispers
the voiceover in the advert, sexily. When you move,
the sound is not tired springs or groaning wood,
but the welcome squelch of a knuckle rubbing a tired eyeball.
In just a few days, it will become a stinking liability,
hot and juddery with maggots. The removal men
will refuse to go near it. But for now it’s beautiful,
undeniably beautiful; gamey, marbled,
glistening on the patio. Curl up and sleep here:
nobody deserves this more.