the mystery meat

as children

we'd

huddle around one

another

while one of us

would,

with a butter knife,

pry open the metal latch

on a can

of Spam.

we were out of peanut

butter.

out of bologna,

out of tuna fish.

we stared into the pink

slab of

gooey meat,

glistening in the kitchen

light.

we'd gulp and grimace

with

with clenched teeth

as the lid

bent back.

okay,

we'd say,

to one another,

who wants to go first,

then hand them

a spoon,

a slice of wonder

bread

and mustard,

then the blue can

dripping

with juice.