by Scott Lilley
Here’s the tinny ring pull
of Sainsbury’s urban myth mystery meat;
a wistful can you’ve seen once before,
rusting away in an old
documentary or outliving
your grandmother in the dampest
corner of her cupboard.
This lost wartime delicacy;
a relic carrying hints
of horse meat or fascism,
blended between its water and ham.
Is this what Brasso was for,
its stench of old marching bands
and ammonia,
to polish out the tarnishes
of history’s mystery meat
with wadding pads and cotton buds.
Now take its brassy lid, its lever
or key, pry it open, stare
at Hormel’s greasy sustenance;
this pulpy lump you could suck
through your teeth and swallow
without chewing. Its serving suggestion,
a cloying brick caught between
sesame seed, tomato and lettuce;
appealing to someone, somewhere.
Now reach inside, clench a fist
around the tin’s pith, squeezing
meat through fingers like playdough
you were told to never eat.
Scott Lilley is twenty-two years old living in Shropshire. He recently graduated from Lancaster University and is currently reading towards an MSt in Creative Writing at Oxford University. His previous work has been included in The Airgonaut, Poetry NI’s FourXFour, Eunoia Review and Three Line Poetry. He can be found on Twitter @scottglilley.
