Westwind Spring 2015

Page 16

chef's first kill t.m. lawson tomato martyrs

are the first to be tossed into a pit of fire, bubbling like belial’s flowers, fresh from the market, my hands are shaking as the wet dries off, the juice of innocent plums fingerprinted on my apron. the cat blinks her rough tongue expecting a meal out of my dread. what is a pussycat’s stroll when a man is dead? her appetite signals a course five or seven, she insists on being first and she plays mouse with the parts already diced. I gambled with that bitter spice called remorse and salted the knife laid in his sweetheart. The nerves are the best part, the trembling exposition of the spoon slits narrowing sampling silver boned delights: CRACK SNAP POP sauteed glob of Bob sprigged with fingerdrops of my ashen blood. my knife’s casual desperate sprint to the torso, saw off, I lick the salty splatter that rings out as the train yowls by No-o-o-o like he did, one hour ago. 15

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