The Muse, The Butcher

by June 11, 2024 0 comments

I gather my ideas
and place them
tenderly at her feet
like a fresh kill.
Ink and bone.
Future and flesh.
She tears at the skin
hollowing the bones;
a wild butcher
cutting away the meat.
She works against the grain,
shortening the muscle fibers.
Slicing thinly and methodically
while the juices ooze
into a syrupy puddle.
Then sliding across
the makeshift slaughterhouse,
she hands me a small slab
and absconds with the ravaged remains.
I clutch the viscid gift
like a wounded hatchling
and begin stitching
it into song.

– T.F. Jennings

editors note:

For those compelled to do the bloody work. – mh clay

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