--- B A R B A R A   T R A N

	Some people torture animals.
	Some boys squash bugs. 
	Some salt snails. Some boys 

swing kittens into walls 
by their tails. It's more 
palatable to some 

to think of boys, 
but we all know girls 
do it too. Not only 

children fire metal pellets 
into the soft pelts 
of squirrels - not for 

the buttery meal their 
brains, it's said, make, not for 
any monetary value. 

Even the soft-
hearted of us can stomach it, 
with our eyes 

open, our mouths salivating, full 
awareness we're consuming 
flesh: a pig's barbecued 

rib, a goose's sautéed liver, a whole 
snapper. We all know 
how they die: beaks razored off, necks 

buzzed open, blood drained from corn-
colored flesh, gizzards wrapped 
in plastic and stuffed back 

in their bodies -- chickens die 
by our hand. But those we don't 
eat, those we keep 

in a tank, in a cage, napping 
on the couch, we like to see 
stroked, cooed to, treated 

to a biscuit, some catnip, a pinch 
of brine shrimp. We note the knots 
in a stray's fur, ribs protruding 

like a charcoal rubbing, the cat's tail 
curtailed. It makes us swear sometimes 
under our breath, sometimes mutter 

over it. It depends. Our thresholds 
vary. Some of us have already sworn 
off all kinds of meat. Some of us 

have got a step closer, turning away 
any product of another's 
labor: cheese from a cow's 

goat's, sheep's milk, the chicken's 
egg, honey 
harvested 

from the hardworking bee. So 
sweet on the tongue, I cannot 
draw the line 

before this. I give myself 
more leeway. The line 
keeps moving. The woman's 

hand bears the grit of the floor tile 
from her face. Her goose-
flesh arm: her pillow. Her tousled, thick-

corded hair: her shield 
from our eyes' glare. Somewhere 
between Gates 407 and 420. I didn't stop 

	to verify, I had a bus to catch. I did stop
	to verify, I had a poem 
	to write.