I reach into the box and touch it, briefly,
the softness of a tennis ball, over-used
and squidgy, but covered in lumps, like a
disease evenly spread around its surface.
I stick my nose in and smell it, the raw
pungent stench of a rotten corpse on its
sixth week uncovered in the tropical
landscape of death.
I listen but hear nothing, no something,
like a sigh from a tired mother's lips
waiting for a husband’s return under
the brightest of moons.
I stick my tongue in and lick the lumped
facade. The salt fuses with my tongue and
in my veins a tingle from the hydrochloric
acid burning.
I extract it and dread floods my veins, fills my
lungs, and whistles in my ears as its thoughts
emanates, no reverberates inside my head.
It hates me, it loathes me, it wants me -- gone.
I can no longer hold it, it falls to the floor,
bounces briefly on the unpolished planks
before it slowly spins towards the darkest
corner of the room.
I am left standing, my bewilderment –
gone.
