Charnel Ground

by Alex MacDonald

Squirrels scrap over dried Jif in Havahart traps by the Buddha. 

My jailor fries beef strips, roux, crinkle-cut potato, 

puffs funeral pyres. Tobacco smoke stains hanging thangkas. 

She growls mantras past her pipe, she  

stomps! and squirrel middens shake like maracas in the ceiling. 

She waits till I return from dinner with mom,  

pushes poutine on me, 

tugs my belt, she 

stomps! Her pupils blur in IPA when I renege, 

the squirrels frenzy in the haze. 

May I be excused! 

I down black coffee on the rocks, 

beef heart tacos, pat the pit bull next door. 

Frank Zappa tells me to rub piss snow in your eyes. 

Try me, motherfucker! 

I am midnight blue Kali, deep space dancer I shit fiyah! 

Human fat and ashes smear my chin and forehead. 

Blood dots my cheeks, breasts, tongue wags 

in cool groves mutts scrap over ribs, 

my funeral pyres sear devoted wives. I 

stomp! I trample her corpse,   

her poutine into the polyester rug. 

My hips sway to caged squirrel rattles, 

acorn, walnut midden maracas. 

My jailor and I scrap over undone belts in pyre incense clouds.