Nadya Bell

Self-propelled moose tongues, he said.
Black icicles of flesh, she whispered.

Coiled around the mouth of an India beer bottle,
Frozen half into an ice cube escaping the freezer,

Mistaken for a mushroom in a salad,
Salted into pus in the strawberry patch,

Or carefully kept in an ice cream tub,
Fed choice dandelion greens,
My pretties, ready for a survival-guide stew.

The ducks swivel their heads up to watch a plane,
And love to choke back a big fat one.