by Megan Cartwright

Evolution

Primordial, we bask on mudflats,
lick the salt that dries in cracks
of lizard-skin, worn 400 million years thin.

Soon, you transmit, with burbles and clicks,
soon, the grass will be green. Obscene –
this denial of time. The birds have flown

without us. I do not hiss I told you so
as fiery biplanes rain toothpick bones.
We scatter the remnants where nobody goes.

***

Mind Games

Give me your head to prise open,
let me part hemispheres, smear
the contents, red across my wall –
a Gerhard Richter original.

Give me your head to impale
on a spike and display
by moonlight – gory maypole,
my very own Lord of the Flies.

Give me your head.
I will sever my own,
knit your flesh to my flesh,
scored with x-shaped stitches,
fat and raw as kisses.

Image via Pexels by Jahoo Clouseau