notdeermag
Red Meat, Erich von Hungen
CW: descriptions of meat
The crow tears
long sticky strands of red meat
from the street,
as if the flesh,
beneath the concrete skin, itself,
were being eaten.
It moves from side to side
as if thinking the crossroad
will lift an arm
and swatting hard, knock him away
from where the road is bleeding.
Black sheen, there,
like a well hole,
too deep for any light to follow.
That hole moves back and forth
hopping, retreating,
wallowing for an instant,
for an instant, flying,
then gliding back.
Always a spot,
a place too deep for light of any sort
to show through,
while it tears off
great distorted hunks of meat to swallow.
As we do too,
picking and pulling
upon each other,
what they said or did,
their looks,
their ways,
their dispositions,
the dreams that they attempt,
the hopes they won't give up.
We yank and pull and pick
and grow fiercely fat
as any unapologetic raptors
upon free, stinking meat.
Erich von Hungen currently lives in San Francisco, California, under a giant Norfolk pine in a century old house between Golden Gate Park and the Pacific Ocean.
His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Esthetic Apostle, The Write Launch, The Ravens Perch, From Whispers To Roars, The Closed Eye Open and others.