Butcher

By Natasha T. Miller

Butcher is a book about love & loss -- about being unapologetic and transparent in grief.

Natasha finds an unexpected solace in the kitchen after losing her best friend and brother, Marcus. Here, using the cuts of the cow as a metaphor Miller, explores addiction, family & tragedy.

Butcher takes the body of a cow and cleaves it into 5 parts: envisioning the cuts as relationship with family members and social forces. Her Mother the rib, her Brother the brisket, her queerness as the tongue and cheek.. Butcher is raw and tender. It’s a book that tells the story of a woman who redefined success after losing the most valuable thing to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Button Poetry
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781943735969

Natasha T. Miller

Natasha T. Miller is a Detroit, MI native, performance poet, LGBTQ activist, film producer, and founder of the “Artists Inn Detroit.” Natasha has been a member of four national slam teams, starred in a national Sprite commercial, a Shinola CNN ad, and she is a Women of the World Poetry Slam 3-time top five finalist. She has awed audiences across the world at more than a hundred universities and venues, performing in stadiums for as many as thirty thousand people. She has been featured in magazines such as Vogue, Entrepreneur, and many more. Natasha currently tours the world using her words to

Book preview

Butcher

The Rib

What Are the Consequences of Silence?

—Mahogany L. Browne

There’s a half-empty bottle

of liquor under my mother’s bed.

When I arrive at her home,

we do not speak.

I am angry.

I am silent because she’s

drunk, again.

She will drink more because I refuse

to hold conversation,

I know this.

The bottle is empty by the time

I’ve gathered all my mail.

My throat, now

the other half of her liver,

and still, I am still

and silent.

And I swallow,

and I leave.

Sangria

My mother is fruit soaked

in alcohol. On good days I call her

sangria. The rest of the time she’s

just an alcoholic. Her eyes sink

ships in a body too full of liquor to feel

itself drowning everything

that keeps it alive. Her liver,

a therapist running out of room

on the couch. One day,

the furniture will break. The house

will collapse. The bottle will finally

fall from grace. Every finger she disguised

as a petal will wilt while the rest of her

shrivels like a forgotten grape in the sun.

I will not abandon her

when her bones are too weak to walk on.

When she asks me to get her more to drink,

I will carry it to her proudly

in a paper bag, whisper, "brown

will be the color of your casket."

I will anchor every no in my throat

to honor the wishes of the dying

that I bring them more death.

I will tell her a story about how

a tree once spit every fruit it bore

far from its roots. I will let her die

believing that everything

skips a generation, even death.

Two Fires

We are always two fires burning

down our own home.

But not today.

Today, I choose

to be water. Today, I choose us over

the ashes.

The Answer Is Kindness

The question is my father

The answer