It’s written on the constitution, fine print: we eat women.
Molten pot of pears. When the flesh swims, we eat. Women

deboned, peeled. Woman can’t walk down the street
without being unpeeled. We flip her skin. We eat women.

Tomatoes sit fertile until they are kissed by pollen. Then
swell fat and red, the juice sweet. That’s when we eat women:

she is nothing but a tomato, filled with seeds. Maybe a plum, with
one round stone. Plucked brown from their stems, we eat women.

Or this trick: the art of turning the wrist to conceal a card— to gaslight
into submission and then, you guessed it! In the end we eat women!

There’s a spot, on the striped melon of a woman. Touch her sweetly.
Just one Hey beautiful, a glance, and we’re in. We eat. Women,

here’s your best hope: Bloom and pick up the royal we. Eat. Women
choose to be fed—and the sky grows blood red—then We eat, women!