For Sale Susan CarlsonCareful. Mind her ribs. The bone is blunt, but it splinters. The heat of her settles so slowly, don't you think? Beneath the blood tang you can smell the deserts that saw her birthed. Empty now, of course. She's been a cage without a bird since you and I had breath to draw. The cave beneath her heart could hold a temple. Her spine is a knobby ceiling. Her bones will leave a creamy white archway when all the rest is gone. Taste this. Where I come from, no delicacy is more prized. Slowly, slowly. Let it melt. A goddess lingers on the tongue. Mind your step. Gaze upon her, the sheer ridiculous wonder of her. Lungs big as airships, when they flew. Vessels like cables. She was the last, you know. You've tasted an ending. Savor it.
Susan Carlson has lived all over the United States, but currently calls San Francisco home. When not writing or cat wrangling, she’s a reader, gamer, cook, and avid watcher of historical documentaries. Her poetry has been published in Strange Horizons. You can keep up with Susan on Twitter as @mynatterings.