Here’s the trick to eating a soul:
you have to melt it down first,
separate gospel prayers from pentagram promises,
boil the mass of ache, stone, and love at 357 degrees Fahrenheit,
set the gas clicking to work, water-down the snow chunks,
take a salty lick and remember
that first kiss
when you forgot how close two faces had to be,
when you forgot how much heat two bodies could generate in winter
then wait—
the recipe calls for you to wait
until green bubbles dissipate, until gall stones of shivering fear surrender,
wait for the syrup to thicken.
I am not a man-eater, I am not a women-eater,
I am not a spider sucking blood from moth wings and grasshopper violins,
I am just trying to please a sophisticated pallete,
a foodie with cannibalistic habits reaching far beyond the flesh of humankind.
Praying mantises bite the heads off their lovers post-coitus,
abominable snowmen watch sunrises and puddle together at the world’s end,
but I am just a hungry girl
hunting for my next meal,
I am just a thirsty woman
learning from Hannibal’s mistakes.
-J. Morrill
