The Opossum

Upon the car there laid a pond of blood.

A baby struck, a opossum, hell's infant.

Split. Splat. Splintered. Cracked. A crimson flood.

A skull the shape of dancing elephants.

My wife, she cried, she bit her tongue. Blood flanked.

A tear upon my own black eye. And more.

She beat and bat and kicked and punched and drank.

A flask. Hers. Mine. Ours. Empty. A dead bore.

Gone. Her tears. My eyes. The maggots famine.

I kick the rubber soul of my own shoe

And squeeze the opossum's flesh before jammed in.

My wife, she says, I've gone insane, a withces brew.

But I just laugh and squawk and screech and squeal.

For death desires death for all that feel.