The Dinner of Her Skin
The bitch
wreaked of lavender
and some mint,
and then faint trails
of marigold
and hibiscus.
I hunted her,
for months observing
the small zigzag
pattern of her gait,
the exquisite tiny hops
of her feet that played
like a melody
when she stepped.
And I knew
where she had been,
where she was going.
I knew the hearty smell
of dinner soup
she spooned
in to her mouth.
I memorized the small
crevices in her lips, again.
I gave them all names.
I watched as her tongue
cleaned the scoop
of her silver and I salivated.
My mouth open as she ate,
I strained to keep my pursuit
patient while my stomach barked
to taste her furless coat,
to feel the weight
of her flesh inside me.
I saved her
supple breasts for last,
savored only after I took
in the rest of her torso
with bloody bites.
How she stared
empty at the stars
in the bed of her entrails,
how she laid stiffer
and colder as the moon
moved in the sky.
My wet nose,
intoxicated by the dining
room bouquet, head all drunk
on the smell of lavender
and hints of mint,
on wisps of dragon’s breath.
I hung her red hood
and cape above my mantle
like the Woodsman hung
the head of his deer.
Maybe my children,
someday stretched
by the fire, will see
my trophy and ask
for a story about
the beautiful red hood.
How once upon a time,
I carefully ascended
the stairs of her house,
upright like a man,
how I knocked with the back
of my paw on her door.
How I whispered
over and over, the words I had
so carefully practiced
to sound human.
How it felt when the knob
turned and the door
swung open. How her
eyes grew when
I lunged.
