Oh, yes. There’s something that just tugs at him, knowing
she’s had kids already, screamed and birthed them out
one by one. Not that he would ever admit to it.
Sure, the idea of her having eaten them turns his stomach.
Yet what does he do? He picks up the phone, and calls.

A few hours later, her knees press against his hips,
the black leather of her thighs bouncing with the road’s
contours, her hands misbehaving dangerously
as he tries to steer her Harley through this distraction.

When they get where they are going, she will smoke.
She will drink the sorts of things his brothers don’t dare guzzle,
and then, with a frightening look of hunger in her eyes,
she’ll pull poor Thoth down onto her, her belly already
swelling, making temporary room for the meat
of their sudden, miscegenate child.

– 2001, Montreal

February 2, 2012

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