Beast

“If I wanted to split you open, this
is where I’d land the ax,” he says,
tracing an invisible line
lengthwise down my skull
starting at the widow’s peak.

“It’s the perfect place to
cleave you in two.”

Like an almond, I think.

Noting the symbolism,
the mechanics.

What he doesn’t know
is that there is no nutmeat
to harvest. My innards
swept clean
like a doe
hanging from a tractor in winter,
ribs cracked open,
organs fed to the dogs
gravity pulling blood
from cold veins
into the hunter’s
wheel barrow.

Still, I let him imagine
the sound of bone
cracking, seductive
and sharp, like a hip
or the crook of an elbow
all the while wondering
what it’d be like
to satisfy the hunger
of the beast
tracing an invisible line
down my skull
starting
at the widow’s peak.