The Beast by Joshua Katcher          clay, oxide, glaze

The Last Letter

The future smells like sulfur, like egg salad.
Like the hot guts have come up through the cracks.
The future sags, bruised as a rotten plum, as ripe as the Devil’s cum.
Split down the center. A cracked coconut.

What strength is left? Enough to type, to flip a switch, to press a button, to dial.
Not enough to survive -  to dig a root, to cross a plain, to tear into raw flesh.

A barnicle, an apple pit. A carnival? – a throat is slit.

-Joshua Katcher