A heart-rending account

He's still warm
when I return from my shower.
I comb my hair and scuff cells
from the smothering pillow.
He jitters posthumously as I open
his chest and truffle about
for the prize. It's wired in
pretty well. He is my first.
It quarters sweetly and is not yet bad.
In serials, they store it like quiche,
spreading out the baconish tang
over several nights, before
slinking back out to stock up.
I reel off cellophane to begin.
It snags,
tangles, clings to my fingers
like a baby monkey and I scream,
banging my hand down, down
bursting the jellyish organ,
dumping it, suddenly
feverish for matches.