Sunday, 14 November 2010

On the Kitchen Floor

Purpling flesh
slowly renders down to jelly
in the larder.
Her eyes
are the dead, pearly buttons
of fish at market.

Her hair splayed
across face and floor,
an extension of
the death rattle
to pour tangling from her mouth.

The grapes around her throat,
a bruised choker;
the depressed plum wristlets
marking her resistance.

I miss her,
and already the aga's chill
jostles painfully against
memories of before.

And there,
mere inches from her hand,
is a knife:
clean;
useless but
reached for.

The cellar door yawns,
cold and disinterested,
but I remain listless:
a witness
to it all.

originally published in The Cadaverine

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