Author’s Note: Originally published by Anthropocene.
When my husband asks me what’s for dinner, I show him the breasts cut from the bone. The cleaver had gently fondled the nipple, Taking off my glove with its teeth. Now my husband pours red wine over the battlefield. I put the rest of her behind the fireplace where it’s warm. Plates bleaching in the sink, he sticks a fork in me. I stick a fork in him—Speak to me. He calls me a liar, a sketch, a ghost of the land. Who will cook the cut if I’m not around? If only I could strip the rump and wear it as a hat, Maybe he might give an ear to my melody.
Utterly powerful in both language and emotion
This is fucking poetry.