How delicious our flesh was,
No one ever cooked it,
Not even my mother,
But she used to wash me from the salt
And chase away from my skin the smell of the sea,
So I would be tender
For everyone to love me.
She used to put perfume on my wound,
Thinking that the scent
Was enough to repel the wolves.
She did not know
That an embrace can hide teeth between its ribs,
And that the table is not always a place of hospitality,
But a platform for slaughter,
And that fullness does not mean love.
She did not teach me
To become someone’s dinner,
But they
Prepared the tables,
Sang the anthem of greed,
And sat around me
As if they were sitting around a feast,
Sharing me
Piece by piece
Until I became a bone
Whose flavor no one remembers.
