Fawn

you,

with your wild eyes

and gun store buck knife,

start hacking at her warm flesh

you say

she’ll make a fine stew

your hands disappearing into the wetness and

the hollows of her abdomen

you turn my stomach

carve fresh hooks into my kid fears

it pleases you no end

to see me squirm

you eat at her soul

and mine

licking your chops

her gooey life’s blood dripping

to the dirt floor

splashing

sacred as a painting,

a masterpiece,

a last supper

splayed across layers of camouflage

you want me to see

to watch you

reveling

next time,

you say,

I’ll make you do it

I tried to tell you

even then

my blade was circling

***

Copyright © 03/14/2004 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.