—HOPING FOR THE BEST BUT EXPECTING THE WORST

                                     Gently Stuffed

You use an ice pick, but are kind and kill me slowly.  Your strokes are precise.  Each puncture pinpoint neat.  A drop cloth catches any spillage so that the floor remains pristine, like your bleached teeth and conscience. 

Afterward, because you are kind, you take me to the taxidermist.  There’s a ceremonial disemboweling.  A few stitches here and there.  Overall, it’s an easy stuffing.  No different than filling a pillow with down, a balloon with hot air. 

You stand me in the backyard by the pear and apple trees.  The crows can’t believe their luck, gathering in the branches like smears of black rain. 

The first flock starts on my eyes.  The next my scalp.  When they get to my chest, I hear applause, then your giddy laughter lifting like a kite freed from somewhere near the porch.