It was started by cruelty, those mouths
dark as houses where each consonant,
each vowel, scored the walls with hate.
They took a woman to pieces,
pressed her flesh against their lips,
told stories about the taste,
about the way she fell apart on the tongue,
melted warm as butter, because
the world was hungry too, they said.
She was judged by the eye, measured by sight,
a little salt, seasoning, until our plates heaved,
the flavours strange, acerbic.
Still we chewed when they told us to
and once we’d finished, it was miraculous,
they even fed us her absence.
They gave us tragedy, a fresh grave,
and when we opened empty mouths
to gorge on the flowers,
they tasted cheap like paper,
and we weren’t sure why,
but anyway, we eat them still.
Caroline Louise Flack (November 09, 1979 – February 15, 2020) 🌹
In a world where you can be anything, be kind.