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.
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