Three Witches of Comerio

Songs of the Everyday

They pick through my entrails the hags
Gathering the dripping mass in trembling hands
And spreading it on old newspaper
Claws scraping at the concrete
Beneath the torn wet print

As they squat and fuss around their spoils
Wise fingers hop hop hop like long legged crows
Here is a healthy pair of kidneys lovely liver
And plenty viscera to scatter to the poor
I watch with feigned disinterest

Picking through disintegrating pages
Spread in a mass of dripping piles on my desk
My callused fingers scratching at the membranes
Of the insides of some great heaving beast
On the horizon I see that it’s grown dark

And somewhere behind the dripping curtains
You’re reading bedtime stories to the boys
In wait for my return from hunting glory
And I will smuggle home inside a ball of gore
And paper the remnants of my heart
My heart.


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