Saturday, 2 April 2011

2: Flight 571

A black and white photograph,
the fuselage proclaiming

Fuerza Aerea

to the snow, but
these tundra don’t listen
to a word.

If we were stranded in
white corridors of the Andes, then

I would worry my teeth in your shank
and scythe your sweetest meats
for supper. If it had to be done,

I would parmesan my feast with shavings
mandolined from the crook of your arm, I’d
munch upon your cheeks and the pads of your palms.

I think of your shoulder adorned
with scarlet crescents, bubbling
with blood, I think of biting.

I wake from visions of
your flesh worked over by my tongue and

I pray for the crash.

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