In the end, my love crept into you like roaches,
your moan sucked the tissue from my eardrums. I told you,
I’m more my love for you than I am myself,
which made you want to pull out my spine,
separate it from the adoration as we sat in my lounge
with a thermos of soup. Under the surface of my skin,
you chewed/ spat out my organs into bits of matter you could frame,
fished the love from my skeleton and placed it on your clavicle,
tipped your head back, kissed
then swallowed it whole.
I was alive, but only long enough
to finish my soup, stroke your throat,
glimpse the curve of your pancreas,
Imran Khan is a reluctant chicken whisperer based in Dorset. His work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in The Rumpus, Menacing Hedge, Juked and Heavy Feather Review. Khan is a previous winner of the Thomas Hardy Award.