Serving Self

A cuddle
you asked for.
Stiff arm
placed
over
warm, soft and soon sleeping.
A cold shouldered frame
for the naked bodies
failing to embrace.

Listening to your echoes,
Not a heart beating
but feet running.

Drowning me in desperate eyes
I hold breath in clenched fist,
with arms weak
muscles torn,
and count the patches
plasters
already
sewn and stuck.
Ready to repeat.

Falter.
Rewind.

Feeding you
Tender loin cuts,
Veal,
Lamb,
I carve the meat
for you,
and sit
swimming in entrails
with lips pinched shut.

Published in Issue 6 of The Lampeter Review

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