Capturing the Thing You Desire
Found him in the garden,
a ball of soot with retractable claws
that I put inside my shirt
and went to show Miss Morton.
Her mother stood by a wall,
swinging chickens by their legs.
Hello Lynn, she said, I’m bashing
brains today. It’s Tuesday.
I’ve got a mowdy, I said, trying
not to look at the spewed brick.
Above my belt, the body still.
I pulled the long slack pelt out.
It didn’t move. Stupefied,
I stood in doubt. He’s dead, pet,
Mrs Morton said. Give it here.
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