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.
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