Stretch My Skin Into a Drum
I want you to eat me when I die. You be the bobcat. I’ll be the old lady.
I think my calves would be good. When I die, I want you to tear off a chunk of my calf and put it in your mouth and pull a face and chew.
Or else cook it. I think my calf would go nicely with white wine vinegar, fried, with shallots. You will feel fancy while you eat me. Do you like shallots? Do what you want. But I want you to eat me.
Cut out my kidney and liver. Rip off a buttock. Make a pie. Mash some potato. I want you all to sit around the table on a Sunday afternoon and eat me. I will be inside the pie. I want you to eat me and I want you to talk about how I taste. If I taste bad, you say so. You use as much ketchup as you want. But you eat me.
You’re going to eat my tongue. Slice it thin and eat it raw. There are too many jokes you can make while eating my tongue. Hold it in your hand and make a joke. Put it between your teeth and make a joke. Feed it to the cat and make a joke. You’re going to eat my tongue.
I want you to eat my heart. Cut it into chunks and grill it, but gently. If you burn me, you’ve failed. You will put the chunks of my heart in a flour-dusted bun. Mustard will go well with my heart. Stand around drinking beer and eating me and talking about sports.
Use your imagination. I want you to wear a bib.
The bits you don’t eat, I want you to burn. Rub the ashes into your gums. Throw them. Whatever. I don’t care. Do what you want with the ashes.
Except the skin. I want you to stretch my skin into a drum. And I want you to beat it. And I want you to be angry when you beat the drum. And I want you to be angry. And I want you to be angry. And I want you to be angry.
