On re-tethering
Charlotte Morrissey

Slaughterhouse in an earthquake,
The threads grow too weak to cage the flesh.
Carcasses come untethered, uncorked,
And the blood spills, cherry wine on cement-smoothed floor.

A custodian stands in the aftermath,
Ankle-deep in the scent of fresh death.
Snaking between towers of bones, buckets of bodies,
Her eyes track only the mop.

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