Cannibals

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It is taboo at cocktail parties
to discuss how the flamingo’s beauty
comes at the death of many shrimp.
Funny how we spend so much time
polishing our teeth, tools for retrieving
the viscera from thick hides, slurping
it into our bellies that can melt statues
back to pebbles. Who made the ostrich?
Who directs the currents that leviathans
use to swim back to the abyss that at least doesn’t
decompose it into something unrecognizable
like our guts. Apologies dear students,
my thoughts often retreat to crenellations
of bruised colored thunderheads.
The dating column tells me to smile,
makes me approachable, someone
that one would like to talk about bad music
and embarrassing times of our youth.
How we cannot help but be attracted
to those weapons, though we try to tame
them with crunch of celery, we know bloodlust
still lingers like the color of those flamingos?
Maybe this is why I ingest you,
so that I too can feel beautiful.
Cannibals by Jim Richardson

Photo used under CC.



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Jim Richardson lives and writes in Florida, where he’s still undergoing metamorphosis to become a poet.

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