The Gladiator

On the day you fed me to your monsters,
The sun shone through wisps of egg-white,
It’s warmth against my bare legs,
Like the promise of the oven preheating.

On the day you fed me to your monsters,
My bowl was empty, my spoon aimlessly stirred the air as if folding heavy batter.
Refusing the emptiness of our pantry.  

On the day you fed me to your monsters,
I went through the required motions,
Donning my tattered apron,
Hoisting the blunted cleaver,
Across injured shoulders.

On the day you fed me to your monsters,
A thousand voices egged me on,
Demanding sacrifice, desirous for blood,
Surrender to those hungry jowls was relief.
My last act of creation,
Your last meal.