The Thing
A night tide expels it,
leaves it
wallowing.
Salt has blistered,
nippers gnawed.
The carcass tumbles.
Tattered flesh flaps,
bone snaggles bone.
A figure emerges,
as if a mangled person
was escaping
the weakening clutch
of tentacled coils.
Waves lap
at the lolling mound,
cavities rupture,
gas bubbles take
luminous shape.
A figure emerges,
hatching
from rancid offal,
it stumbles toward
the lights of a village.
Remains hang together
clothing a riddled form.
Strips of denuded meat
drag behind.
It is famished,
even though its belly is
a bladder of corruption,
still, it is hungry.
It sees the warmly lit tavern,
imagines
a sweet fried fish on a skillet,
a glass of strong ale
waiting for the touch
of its macerated lips.
It had been a long swim.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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