She unravelled his skin,
creased the butts of her fingers
carefully, letting the canvass fall
to the floor in cascading rolls;
set about untwining the ligaments,
biting the fat back with her nails.
She slipped his biceps in a box,
slopped the buttocks in a suitcase,
clawed the brain, dropped it
into the grey toilet with a plop,
only his blood-stitched heart left,
she set about searching
for tweezers, excuses, complaints.
If you've any comments to make about this poem, Daniel Sluman would be pleased to hear them.