Meat by Tracy Fuad
by Tracy Fuad
I take a moving photo of him on the subway with four strangers wearing blank masks,
while another drags a trail of body fluids past.
After the show I claim that I like Times Square for the first time but it’s not really liking
if you like it because someone you like likes it.
He tells me how he got the thin white scar that splits his brow in two when he was three
and charged into the corner of a chair during an air raid.
I tell him the saz is my favorite Kurdish instrument and he say saz just means instrument
and I wither. But later, I learn he is wrong.
He orders medium and I rare while trying to touch his leg beneath the table.
But I’m unable to locate his leg.
Still I navigate to flightradar.com to behold the yellow vectored flocks of all the world’s
planes, densest where the sun spills its ellipse of light.
At Rite Aid on Church Ave he buys me a pill and a woman bolts for the doors, bag stuffed with
tubes of blue lube, which a guard grabs and scatters as she laughs into the night.
My phone buzzes with the information that documents have been declassified
and prove the US knew Saddam was planning to use chemicals.
Still I navigate to mapmyrun.com to calculate the calories I burned biking to see him.
To eat less, the site suggests, eat while looking in a mirror, or with a man.
Alone, I fall asleep watching massage porn. I do suspect I single-handedly triggered
the genre’s sudden uptick with my nonstop talk about massage porn.
My phone keeps changing devastates to Debra Yates and I don’t know her but on Facebook
her job is I am busy and on legacy.com she’s dead.
I am so alive I writhe and spill. In Kurdish, a girl who is beautiful is said to be sweet-blooded.
Do you want to kill the unresponsive page?
When I can’t sleep I pull up Craigslist but find it in a foreign language, or I dreamt this –
but I wade through the map despite this, clicking pictures.
At the unisex salon my barber props his phone up in the mirror and Skypes his babies.
I wave and he says, you’re very hairy here, touching my face, then shaves me blank.
My love calls me azizam and so I Google it to text it back in hand-drawn script.
Eat, he says, azizam, eat. Says, I hope it turns to meat on the bone of your leg.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
about:blank, Tracy Fuad’s first book of poetry, won the Donald Hall Prize and was published in October by University of Pittsburgh Press. She is also the author of two chapbooks: PITH (Newfound, 2020) and DAD DAD DAD DAD DAD DAD DAD (TxtBooks, 2019). A graduate of the Rutgers-Newark MFA program, she is a 2021-22 Writing Fellow at the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, and lives in Berlin, where she teaches at the Berlin Writers’ Workshop.
AUTHOR PHOTO BY Carleen Coulter • FEATURED IMAGE by Dainis Graveris via Unsplash