A black and white photograph,
the fuselage proclaiming
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.