The old hag, alone in the candy cottage,
stood at her sink separating a chicken.
Ripping open the legs,
she revealed a compote of innards
that smelled of sweat and slime.
She read her future in its entrails,
and put the heart, like an apricot,
to her lips for a bloody chew.
She peeled off the pimpled skin,
dropping it in the trash like a used
yellow condom, sticky and stretched.
The meat was cold
and made the brittle bones
in her knuckles ache.
But she enjoyed the feeling of flesh
against her fingers,
and the thought that something dead
could continue to be of use.