content warning: some gore
My Arm, Caught In A Bear Trap
I do not have nightmares
of my teeth falling out—
they are all there every night
in spades, like spades.
I gnaw through this stubborn arm
caught, catch tendons between the gaps,
swallow enough boiling blood
to make water taste weaker
than coffee. I can still feel
my fingers grip the air as if they
have the strength enough to hold me.
Dark now, the Sun
is setting but I am still trapped, still
hungry, still ripping at the bulbous
veins that noose themselves
around my wrist, still chewing
as if the bones beneath were boiled
in the sweetest brine
my prisoner tongue has yet to taste.
Even a body rooted in soil
enough for its anxious,
tender breath can rot.
how it protects what is more vulnerable,
a starving mother watching
her children eat: It is not enough, it is not enough
over & over.
It’s the waiting that does it, rips
fresh from dirt like skin from bone
between teeth & tongue.
Long enough &
the Earth will not recognize it,
this ravenous consumption.
Membrane holds a yolk.
Sew what’s spilled—
hold the Earth & its bodies,
inhale the beauty of two things
blended, bound, together.
Andrew Walker is a writer living in Marquette, Michigan. He is a poetry reader for No Contact and his poetry and prose has appeared in Kissing Dynamite, HAD, Pidgeonholes, Zero Readers, Eckleburg and elsewhere. You can find more of him at his website, druwalker.com, but you can find most of him on Twitter, @druwalker94.
photo by Raphael Brasileiro (via pexels)