15
It takes the sharp knife of specificity
to breath the end punctuation to a sentence,
a life. A dilated plea, an unheard scream
an empty bone chapel on a flesh island
and nothing else exists.
You will look at me
like I am, well, what I am:
a butcher, an artist, a story teller, a god.
On some lost beach a group of men huddle,
and the first man to stalk a crab
walks low on the shoreline.
The others watch, the air caught in their throats,
as he wrestles it over, smashes it’s white-bellied
shell with his fist, tears off one snapping claw.
In that purgatory of air, he rips off the thin of a pink
spined leg and sucks out the meat from the tip.
The others, wide eyed and retching
cannot fathom the sweetness within.