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Lions Are Interesting
Each morning in the little white cabin by the river they woke to a raccoon clawing under the floorboards or banging in the wood stove. They did not discuss this. Instead they said it was a perfect day to pick blueberries on the hill, or that a hike to the old glassworks sounded good. They were beginning to speak not in meat but in the brown paper the butcher wraps around it. Brown paper around dirty magazines. Like dirty magazines, they only traced the contour of substance: silk over skin, skin over muscle, muscle over bone. What's under bone? Marrow? Their forks so small and dull. As if for dolls. You can tell dolls from animals because the latter are made of meat. Many eat it, also. Lions are interesting. Lions don't eat the flesh of their kills right away, but first lap up the blood, until the meat is blanched nearly white. White as the little cabin by the river they stayed in that summer. White as the raccoon covered in ashes, his black eyes bottomless and bright with hate.