Kreapsake


 

a keepsake, a charm, a witch’s curse,
there are times I wish I’d stolen something
from the Strathcona Anatomy and Dentistry Building
from Systemic Human Anatomy, where we spent our time, soaking
in that particular perfume of the dead
meant for teaching, heads
(“it smells a bit like hamburgers?” I once said)
in bins of people juice,
and kidneys, paired and cute,
and spleens, their ugly cousins,
and gall bladders, peeking shyly behind a livered skirt

there are times I wish,
I had on the street, something congealed –
I mean, well, concealed, of course
something small to hide in my palm,
(carry your keys in your hand)
no, something to make his eyes widen
more, something that doesn’t quite open doors,
well, something more frightening than keys,
more frightening than “how do you like it baby”
and “I want to smash your pussy”
and “come on give me a kiss”

there are times I wish,
when on the street I had a memory
in my hand like a sternum, or even
the blade of a first rib, edge-sharpened,
or something far fleshier, muscly and
ripped from a cadaver, or pulled from a bin,
something to give him, to slip into his hand,
when he asks for that kiss, thrusts with his pelvis,
give him what he’s asking for,
his (not so) fresh (as-you-sow,
so-shall-you-reap) meat, whisper in his ear,
when he cocks his head,
“here, come hear, eat this instead”
a keepsake, a charm, a witch’s curse.

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