poem

Primal digestion


I have a number of pelts
and scalps
given without reluctance--
tied, with your own hands,
to my belt.

The useless
parts
to the vultures.
They don't care for decoration...

They don't care,
who killed, how or why?

They take the true spoils of war.

The sinew and stopped blood,
corroded into meaty rust.

I, too, have wings.
They're spattered in blood.

And I, too, am cleansed
by my own fluids --

but you stick around.

I shower in the
hottest waters.

I scourge my skin.

But it's not you
I'm washing off,

Not your hands, maybe
the only real thing about you.

They've made permanent imprints.

Fucking rejoice!

And crush me into submission.