Eastward her house faced, and the afternoons were
spent out back where siding was showing bald spots,
window panes smudged here where a child’s smooshed face had
stared at the henhouse.
Linen hanging limp in the fading light, ripe
pomegranate pattern and a lace hem, her dress
begged to billow. Breezes were rarely felt here;
laundry would languish.
Still, she sucked the sweetness of life with real zest,
gripped the fruits, caressed them and kissed their peachy
skin before they oozed from their ruptured crowns, then
drained down her gullet.
Chomping down hard, breaking through crusts of young skulls,
tender brains, she cherished the nurslings’ small heads,
ate them scalps first, down to the teeth, which she spit
out to the chickens.
Robyn Groth has an MA in linguistics and writes poetry and short fiction. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, three sons and two cats. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Blue Monday Review, The Tishman Review and Vine Leaves Literary Journal.