KAT FINCH



NUMERAL CANNIBAL

vivisection grew into tulips that spring.

a beautiful epidemic of pickled specimens.

the accountant asks for a bride and some lightning.

with pliers and seam ripper he courts her.

in the dark he eats and eats.

he cooks the books with sea salt, pepper.

“a nice chianti.”

this is just for kicks he says, he licks her.

on tuesday he buys glass eyes from the taxidermist.

blue like fog heavy in a pocket.

they orbit like baoding balls in his hand.

hesitation – left the sockets bare.

stitches them closed with brightly colored floss.

anoints her bones with ferromagnetism.

he silently thinks he might develop pica.

a finger, a lolly, saliva wanting.

before the solstice solders antennae to her cerebellum.

supper is always a meal best left unfinished.

he pours lighting from a flask into her pores.

a halo of formaldehyde seeps from her risen body.

“but love is not an electrocution,” she would say.

if only she had a mouth.



KAT FINCH is a bicycle. She is a poetry editor at Mixed Fruit Magazine and has work appearing in Birdfeast, Sugar House Review, The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, and The Dirty Napkin. Her favorite color is green.