Chicken à la King
I bit. We bred a snoutless dog to lead
us to the prize. We groomed ourselves
with yearning floss. You swam
through scum in the retention pond
and called it flamenco. We shaved the tips
of ice caps with our skis but found
no mountain’s brain. Tossed dollars
at the occasional lobster. I let soap hit
my lids. You ate the hottest pepper
on the menu. We questioned the pruning
routines of hydrangeas, deepened the soil
with our spoiled foods’ black music.
We made our beds. We unmade
our beds. We denounced cotton blends.
The dog reached the end of its natural life
so you buried it in the retention pond
and called it flamenco. I sat. I stood.
The question of old wood as opposed
to new. When we win the prize, do we hold it
by the scruff? You swish and spit with
béarnaise down the drain. Next we hunt
using dead dog’s blind kin. I know
now not to chew so I’m practicing
soft-mouth. I’m practicing on you.
as a Dead Fish
all ruptured and busted underneath this tire, split big and pink from whole fish to fish bits (miscellaneous, slick eyes disconnected), Mister Fish did you know
you have a smidge of viscera peeking below your blue abdomen’s hem, an indecent display, a blisterstyle bursting, a watchit watchitwatchitwatchit POP and SPEW FLUID situation, a gutsy flood, and why were you left here, fish, life
squished out, and oh don’t cry, this has really been a hard day for all of us