LAMIA



From behind this glass I see him
sleeping, the slow rise and fall of his chest
in infrared, a supine smear of cinnabar,
his heart beats lemon-orange.
I taste his mammal blood upon the air.
As long as I get my nice fat rat, he’ll live
another day, but I haven’t forgotten
for a single instant the instinct
to smother him in the tightening coils
of my cool and beautiful body.
Where he belongs is in my belly, digesting
slowly as I bask beneath the false sun
of the heat lamp.
                        This glass, this air crystalised
won’t keep me.
                             He senses this, I think –
the rats keep coming in tribute; besides
he is too enraptured
by my shimmering skin, my flicking tongue
to listen to the better judgement

of his survival instinct.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

THINKING ABOUT LUKE WILLIS THOMPSON

WHY PETER GILDERDALE CAN GET STUFFED

BOHEMIA'S FURTHEST SHORE: CZECH INFLUENCES ON NEW ZEALAND CULTURE