Red Meat Causes Cancer
Janet Dean Knight

Was it bacon that killed my father?
Or was it the fat in the pan, poured
over new season Jerseys tasting of soil,
a greasy spoonful saved to coat the double-yolker
its firm white fried to a doyley frill?

Was it the red meat, the beef, the pork,
the lamb of Sunday dinners when the rotation
of chicken was a bloodless regret;
when pudding came first, flooded in onion gravy,
the scent of last week’s dripping in its savoury batter?

Was it the Spam, the pre-packed ham,
red rolls of polony, liquor-soaked faggots,
the luncheon meat eaten for supper or tea?
Or was it the succulent slurry of corned beef hash,
with brown sauce and mashed potatoes?

Was it this that did for his heart?
And the eight pints a day that did for his liver?
Or was it a childhood spent in one holey jumper
his belly tight with the sting of hunger,
the bread and scrape for every meal.

Was his time marked out from the day he bent
to enter the tunnel aged fourteen, holding
the candle with its desperate flicker,
the ponies jumpy from soundless tremors
and the little bird struggling to think of a song?

I choose to believe it was the bacon,
the brisket tied in its tight white string,
the belly pork slices baked on the range,
the compliant muscle of mutton cooked slowly.
I choose this pleasant death for him,

his stomach bursting with second helpings,
satisfaction burning in the bowl of his pipe,
a Mather’s black beer at this side, his wife
in the kitchen, a ten bob note tucked in the teapot,
and Take Your Pick on the telly.

Janet Dean Knight was born in Barnsley and now lives in York. She has an MA in Creative Writing from York St John University. Her poetry has appeared in print and online magazines and anthologies. She was shortlisted in the Bridport Prize in 2012, and commended in the Stanza Poetry Competition in 2015. Janet is currently working on a first collection and a novel.

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