Ten, we tied chicken necks to strings; our clumsy hands
forming clumsy nooses forming

deep ridges in the quiver pink flesh. We pulled

until

we felt the loop’s bite

pause

against the rubbery firmness of bone. Then we hung the necks

from the pier and waited, net ready, for the tell-tale tug,

waited

to yank the string upwards and expose

the tiered crabs

clinging

to their prize like a cluster of tenacious grapes,

all red and brown, the colour

of salt dried blood.

 

Sonia Hamer

 

Sonia Hamer is a writer from Houston, TX.

© 2019