Sunday, April 28, 2013

Cafe

The dream is always the same.  I am eating a long, thick, tough-skinned Boa, with the calmness of a restaurant customer enjoying a full plate of goulash.  The snake sticks out its tongue, but it doesn't hiss, nor does it struggle--it had stopped lunging the moment I punctured its side.  I chew slowly, enjoying its look of surprise, incredulous, like I'd arrived without a reservation or manners. 

When I am full, I awake.  I am thirsty.  I trot off to the pond, glance at my reflection before submerging my snout, my own tongue greedily lapping cool liquid.  It drips down my narrow chin.

I never know where the blood comes from.  It spreads across the water, like a wrinkled, red tablecloth.

--Katherine Gotthardt
copyright April 28, 2013   
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