There should be symmetry in the body of living.
Uneven in places, not scooped hollow,whistling
its winter clear through inside outward. Some
eager collapse waits to cave in and scheme my
gait into stumbling. Not the skin scraped clean
no fat and blood rinsed away, not lopsided or cold.
Sleep became an open tunnel with crooked turns.
Waking life numbs sits as plated white rice.
Every grain dull as serrations on butterknives.
Tiny points fantasize about zigzags of brutality.
When you want to explain missing pieces, hands
holding hungry knives seem to appear more often.
When you want to find what has been carved down,
Decomposition has no mercy or autumn colors,
everything leaves. Whittled down, mined to watch
the canaries chirp their last songs just before lanterns
and bones are crushed with the veins of ore untapped —
inky carbon in the lost and found that no one checks.
The fragments flaked into chips and blades drawn
remind me there is so much more that could be taken.
--by Tara Betts,
Previously Published by Ragazine.CC (July-