bellum se ipsum alet

There was too much to eat that night, (too many bodies) my mouth cut a thousand mirrors, picking bones from our teeth, it was a wonder how in the glut of it all nobody choked. A slide of skins, a swarming tide of vacant eyes and scales. Bodies collecting at feet, the rotting bounty, the mad preacher, dynamite fishing in silver rivers, calling God down upon the stinking offspring. Poison would not smell sweeter— A hundred eyes anthraxing me from a distance // no distance too wide for airborne anatomies behind it all, the men, cold and quiet with now unnumbered eyes a unnumbered bodies waiting, so patiently, for the first of us to bite,

Grace Cohen