by Joanne Fong
Start with the runt, his shrill
shrieks sweep out over a cruel
land, where a midnight sun
never sets on entrails, stains
the ice luminous red
Slice into the heat of his belly
—a fish, ready
to be gutted.
Hack at limbs til you reach
bone, soon you will have ragged cuts
of meat, poor imitations of sliced
sections hanging from hooks
in butcher’s windows back home.
Flinch when someone nicks
the bowels, putrid fumes leak
out like a tyre puncture.
Once you burn those hunks
of flesh til taste turns sour, season
with stale salt from gritty palms.
Almost forget nights spent
under the endless sun, his pulse
lulling you to sleep, fingers woven
deep in shaggy comforts of fur.
Joanne Fong is an emerging writer, creator and functional human. She is a journalist at KOS Magazine and is based in Melbourne. Find her on Instagram @joannefwrites
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