My limbs feel cold, soggy, like half-
raw oats. Grumbles should claw
from my stomach, tugging at shirt
and skin, but there’s only silence.
Her body bled into the ground,
I’m told, crumbling like run-over
turtle shells. They tell me to fill
the gaps in my ribs with sustenance
but I know that won’t bulge
my shriveled, braided insides.
Her skin faded into transparency,
paling until nothing was there. Piles
of food now only look like stripped
guts, pulled bones from lifeless bodies.
The metal came from nowhere,
breaking her hip before she could sigh.
Should it have been me, I don’t know,
but I tell myself so anyway. I want
to scream until I don’t feel
cold, soggy. I want to scream
until I think I’m hungry.
Daniel Boyko is a writer from New Jersey. His work appears or is forthcoming in SOFTBLOW, Nanoism, Blue Marble Review, and The Aurora Journal, among others. He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Polyphony Lit. Wherever his dog is, he can’t be far behind.
Eunoia Review 
Wow, I can really relate to this. My husband died a few months ago and I feel this way also. Beautifully put. Beautiful, but screamingly sad.