Rhea’s Revenge

You have made a litany of our lives,
husband, worthy of any myth. How
did they taste, I wonder? Each
small boy slipped down your gullet.
I trembled beneath your body as you sweated
out their sweetness, sweated in the next.

Take in enough water
to layer your pain,
you’ll need it on your lungs
to stop the sounds.
Imagine each son
weighting your gut.

When I finally release, I’ll haul you home
to prop against the hearth,
still wet from the sea. I’ll cook samphire
in tight shoals of butter and lime,
and offer it to your conched mouth, massage
‘til swallowed and watch your belly swell.

Later,
I’ll cut you
groin to teeth
bury our children’s bones,
the one black stone,
then feast.