Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
First,
And I’m just getting started –
Erica, you didn’t use a pan.
Tucked in the wings
And lodged him in the bottom rack.
Set to broil. I heard
noises. Harsh, brittle noises Thought that
was
You and Trevor, scraping groins on the counter again.
Or doing knife play, or just filling the room with your wild
Wiccan chants. But it
was him. He was, he was still living,
Wasn’t he? Banging
against the door, hoping to fly.
Singed blood slopped on the bottom, feathers
Crisped and yellowed.
You’ve seen chickens in stores, right?
You know they don’t cook ‘em in their all together.
And next –
Here’s why I’m afraid to even ask –
Since there’s no fucking beach for MILES –
Where did you get him, and why did you bring him here?
They’re airborne rats.
Let ‘em pick up the garbage. Take
What’s undesirable.
Don’t bring them into our apartment
To hunt. You want
blood. I don’t get it. I never will.
We. We. Live here.
Things, people, animals. Do not
Enter this dwelling, cowered, quaking, unaware,
To be yoked at this altar of itchy rage you’ve made.
I’ve cleaned it best I could. Worn through five pads
Of steel wool. Felt
bone and eyes mush into my fingers.
Smell’s pretty
hostile, though.
But I want you gone.
Sister or not. You’ve stopped
The meds, that’s clear.
And I don’t to want clean any
More carrion. Make
any more excuses.
I kept the wishbone.
Cleaned it. It’s yours. Keep and
When you need a gram of kindness, crack it open.
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