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by Lucia Zimmitti They gnaw canvas, rope, cardboard, roll—like measured words— kernels of nearly-food in change purse mouths. They eat the sick you heave, scour the halo of sour wood at your head. Blind teeth— yours? theirs? ours?—seethe and warp and snatch each bile-wet splinter. Curl smaller—smaller still—as the arrogance of want abrades your skin, whisker- tremble tracing the sick back to its maker. You sense them weighing options: Await death, or commence feeding? They leave behind hard turds that at least prove they were there. But now the hasp gouging your flank consummates flesh. First, a whisper- weep of pink. Next, a rush of red like unburied life. Finally— a ferruginous crust, proud of how it stays. But they return— as they must—and lick the metal clean, divesting you of your own ichorous leavings. Copyright 2013. All rights reserved.
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