Wild.

The meat was wild

as I pressed it to my lips.

Bones and marrow running

running across ragged pigment

running wild.

When it seared in the pan,

hot and aching,

I could smell the pasture

and its hunger to go beyond.

I could detect the rebellion

of ninety-nine plus one

wild little lambs.

Wild. And dead.

Living veins with death

swelling wild.

Did it hurt

when I massaged spice

into its skin?

Did the course black pepper

scrape pain into flesh

as I pressed?

I pressed sharp spice

into dead lamb.

I covered it with salt

and my throat dried.

I begged for flavor—

for salt to bring seasoning.

But instead,

when I finally took a bite,

it only elucidated the wild.

This meat, it’s wild.

I taste and for a moment

delight.

I taste again

and the pleasure is gone.

I taste my own flesh

flesh gone wild

wild with rebellion.

I eat and I remember

the passover lamb—

A sacrifice of pure blood

to cover my wildness.

The fragrance in this profane kitchen—

It sticks to my skin

and my hair

and my clothes.

I smell and I remember;

I feast and I repent.

And I thank the Shepherd

Who came as a Lamb

who died,

who I painfully killed,

and became wild death

So that I and the ninety-nine

might live.

I hunger and I create.

I walk and I work.

My blood pumps and I live

human—

Terribly, humbly human.

While all the while

up above me

Heavenly company

dance for the Lamb

turned Lion.

The Lion 

Wild 

and lovely.