Crunching on bones
She saw me looking at her, looking
at his mud on the slate floor
of the kitchen as he filled the room
with oilskinned back and black, wet hair,
but she looked away before my breath turned
from out to in and then she winged his grouse
as he pissed like a horse above our heads
and we took care of ourselves, which is what
he wants – not that he said anything.
Words in here are scraps to fling and swallow whole
but not too much as that’s too much, you see:
She’s still in there, I said, the ewe like you said,
so I can do what you said if you want to, I said.
And he ate it down, dots and dashes and commas and all
and all I got was a glottal stop and I and I say aye too
and head back down to suck the thinnest of bones
and even eat the crunchy ends so nothing’s wasted
which is what He wants you to see and I do. I do.
Crunching on Bones by Robbie Frazer won First Prize in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2018) judged by Derek Adams