making your dinner

 

There’s no good way to do it, snapping ribs, needle tips, bones and their pearl ends. I want this to go faster. The wings that moved a little if it ever had room to run, they refuse to come away. The knife and I together barely bruise a leg backward as if a car had nailed it. And here, the heart like a slender thumb, lobed liver wet as pudding and shaped with such strange intelligence.

 

 

 

Amy Miller

rough house

prose poetry for the people