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.