The tour guide is an orphan child / who leads a handful of sightseers and lookers-on / through the slanting stacks and wild piles of everything imaginable.
Body parts were smeared and eviscerated. Sorting through the tiny entrails packed full of adorable forest grains, James had difficulty differentiating one partial corpse from another. Fortunately, he noticed something peculiar which sped the gruesome accounting to a conclusion. While the wolf consumed the majority of each chinchilla, it never ate the head.
My bones are yours
to burn or break
bury or bleach –
Swarthy awnings yap about water bugs.
Jackhammers sneeze like bedridden mandarins.
Antsy pigtails jump double-dutch, out of breath.
Sometimes he dutifully trots out brawling lunch-bucket words like bellyache, shorty, and potato salad before a jury of austere, saccharine men whose facial wrinkles swim like goldfish in a bowl. The jury listens to story after story of calamitous jobs, failed marriages, bullies. Anecdotes about the wattle of deep-pocketed words.
Eyes closed, I wait for the bite, the fade,
thoughts lifted into spider silk,
words tangled in fingers.