Cleaver

By Katie Kemple

Cleaver me. Leave it to Beaver me. 

Beneath all of Ward's shark suits lives 

an Eddie Haskell ready to chop your 

breastbone in half. Every June Cleaver 

has a beaver (...but you knew that.)  

What makes conformity crave a hack? 

If I put my best A-line dress on, a lace 

trimmed apron, would you pay to see 

me butcher a turkey into its market 

stable parts? Here I am wrapping legs 

like presents into plastic. Now I use 

the legs to bongo a beat on a pot. Let 

me strip tease down to my profitable 

parts. Now watch as I cleaver my legs

off, my breasts, and toss them in the 

ice box. I stuff an apple in my mouth. 

About the Author

Katie Kemple (she/her) is a poet based in San Diego, California. Her poems have been published by, or are forthcoming in, Ploughshares, Pembroke Magazine, and The Night Heron Barks. Visit katiekemplepoetry.com to read more of her work.