His porcine hands

and me, glass-eyed

Milky forearms, tracing the veins,

bluegreen rivers

trafficked downstream

Little nips from toothy fish

My bracketed head the only

bastion, neck outstretched 

purifying

My breastplate, my carapace, my outside ribs

A kiln for clay guts

This traitorous beacon for his treacherous mouth

silky meat

unctuous, and i’m

Understaffed

Slices of my bodylife on tables

Hungry, beckoning

the target comes to the arrow

He feasts

My salty cheeks

gooseflesh in broken pottery

distilled to dust