barbeque ribs by Ziyi Yan (14, Connecticut)

[content warning: eating disorders, self harm]​

count
your ribs, fingering the clinging 
meat rack by rack, selecting a prime 
cut for picnic lunch, still 
raw, bouncing with fleshy aliveness of a 
pig.

---

dry
in the ebony heat until you shrivel,
plum seeping tart juices–
purple bloodstains on the kitchen floor,
until the bones are smooth as a science-class skeleton bleached to untarnished porcelain–
water 
is the first taste of remorse.

sink
into the rhythm of throbbing, dull knife sawing
through ruby-red flesh–
there’s a visceral glory in moving one muscle to make another
tremble,
sinewy fibers tortured into marbled pasture-raised
grease.

cook
until every muscle withers, 
chalky sinew gurgling misty-eyed refractions before 
burning
to bitter coals.

cut 
into your unrendered porcelain, scaly creases 
cracking like a china bowl, 
pick up the shards that your blue-green veins might bloom to painted cobalt flowers, 
knives on the checkered floor–
red and white, bloodstains and lard stained bowl,
baby-backs still jiggling.

eat
rack by rack, stretching the
stomach until ribs burst to slimy entrails,
emaciated arm cranking the 
ropes splintering like  
tendons snapping like rubber bands
with every bite, 
tears moist against ant-infested wood,
pleas fat with senseless simile,
your law cares nothing for mercy.

clean
up the bone-white shards and shrug a sweater over that flowery dress–
your guests will be waiting and it’s a nice hot day–
so pull out that textbook smile 
and feast 
under a sun of melted butter.