The Vine Maker

He had seen chicken necks twisted and broken in Chinese markets, the plucked dismemberment of flapping wings. With help, he could have strung his carcass up like a hog on a hook. He would have quickly cleaved himself from balls to breast, but this was a one-man job. The cadaver had to be bundled, separated and filleted. Strange but he knows what to do. His hands are now sharp as scalpels. Fingers are boning blades, lancets, curettes and shears. He inserts a stiletto under the jaw, angling through neck bones, the larynx, drawing the point downward severing jugular vein and carotid artery. He does not collect the blood, but lets it wet the earth. He watches the bulbous purple coils spill from his abdomen. Chitterlings and sweetbreads, plump jewels gleam briefly then settle on the ground in warm mounds. A quick slice along the breastbone, then ease the ribcage apart, scoop out lungs and heart, - fat catfish from a keep-net. Looking upon his piled substance, he feels as if the great work of his life had now ended well. He watches as the meat and offal begin to dissolve. Soon from the pools of blood vine shoots will emerge. One day there will be new wine.