cannibal...

at the end of the day…
i await you, on the bowl’s edge;
it is full of gravy, meat,
simmered unmercifully.
i marvel it took so long
to become consumable…

you tell me patiently that i have no substance,
all gristle and pain; nauseatingly raw…
but you have eaten worse—all fat,
all bone—seemingly fleshy
morsels, looking, looking; while
i waited.

now i suppose you wish a proper setting—
linen, silver?
i stewed them, too…with flour,
salt and the recipe you so
thoughtfully added as a prelude…

you encouraged monstrosity in the child,
a freakish, frightened, malformed offspring;
now that it is conceived, how am i to live?
it infects the air i breathe
with hellish shrieks of pampered resistance…

it boils, festers and eats my rationale;
pull up a chair;
i have served it up well—
done--but not overcooked…
there are a few lumps no matter how hard i stir…
but the ice water will help you
swallow it…


cannibal...soliloquies
ja allen