Poem by Annie Hartley
For breakfast last Monday,
I ate a soul because there was
Nothing left to eat in the pantry.
I sautéed it with a little bit of
Olive oil and just a dash of basil.
The light dancing tones of Mozart
Covered up the anguished, burning screams.
On the plate, the soul looked like an
Egg omelet in a black and white photograph.
It tasted like fresh baked cookies.
I think her name was Reyna.
Now even the coldest ice cream burns like fire
In my mouth, and when I look in the mirror,
My tongue is charred and bloody,
And my gums leak a clear, slimy pus.
Another soul will take the pain away,
But the supermarkets and organic food stores don’t advertise:
“Fresh caught human souls for sale. Only $4.99 per pound.”
It’s too bad, really. It would be a good money maker for them.
I killed my first victim today.
I drove my butcher knife into her throat,
And held a mason jar up to the wound to catch
The slippery soul as it spilled out along with the thick red blood.
I left her body for the police to find and bury.
I owe her that much at least.
This time, I made scrambled eggs, and they tasted like garden grown tomatoes.