Floured hands kneaded,
pressed palms of her hands,
shaped to how she wanted.
She rolled him.
Just right. Flat.
Sprinkled a little more flour on
the cutting board
to avoid sticking.
Thin strips, twisted to
a pretzel of his former self.
Salted wounds, baked alive.
Washed her hands of him.
Devoured half,
threw the rest away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem