Baited Breath
By Christian Litsey

 

Little wrigglers sliced to pieces,
Writhing in sharpened agony.
Layed out in one, two, three.
Intruded through fresh incisions,
Around and around, up and through.
Now they're through, small sacrifices
Submerged in the slimey refuse.
Cast them out, castaways,
Cast into a murky hell where the signals
Travel in jerked messages back along the line.
Watches wander around the periphery,
Lung still in their frozen chests.
Will the Creamsicle caller
Return their hesitant messages?
The slaughtered are nibbled at
Until they become only a palatable memory.
Still string. Haul it back in.
Reload again.

 

Bellyaches

How easy was it to raise the price of sustenance
as the food rolled down the conveyor belts and we shakily loosened the purse
strings in order for our babies to survive.

 

We are treated like kicked dogs,
still stuffed from the filler stuffed in all of our kibble, corns and grains and trash.
They must have forgotten we’re carnivores.

 

The whispers of wolves rapidly turn to growls
when their bellies begin to rage in the snarling desire to feel full, to feel whole.
Our teeth are thirsty for their jugulars.

 

Christian Litsey from US is a teacher, poet, and former editor of Indiana University Purdue University Columbus’s literary magazine, Talking Leaves. He’s published there and in other publications. He is also a father and loves reading, writing, getting tattooed, and exploring museums. He lives in Muncie, Indiana.