This morning, after I woke up

And opened out to my front porch,

There lay two nouns on the mat.

One’s belly split open, with vowels

Spilling out in red black mucus.

Another, on its side, stared up

At me with a dense pupil. Breathing quickly

And flapping. Inside I grabbed the news.

Outside the living one had died of fear.

I swept and wrapped them up

Like fresh livers. Sometimes I’ll stitch

Them back together with fine blue

Thread and blow air into them until

They can blow air on their own. They

Pick up and fly back onto the page: Dark

V’s on the horizon. Instead,

I boiled some water and chopped some garlic.

Plucked the feathers,

Broke the beaks and separated

The legs from the body. I gutted

Each of them with a small knife

And fed the vowels to the

Cat who waits for the wet bits.

Candles and placemats.

Served over a bed of yellow rice,

Roast red peppers with crushed black

Pepper, asparagus, and lemon aioli.

I’ll make them all eat my words.

…

Liam J. Kelly is a writer living and working in Berlin, Germany. He has bylines at Berfois, Exberliner, The Chop, and Wired UK amongst others. He was born in London, Ontario and finished his studies at the University of San Francisco.