You’ll Never Love Me
BY LUE HUGHES
Sometimes I admire the way the scrimmage between crows
for scraps of carrion tossed to the dumpster sounds. It’s not something
I often hear these days. Nobody is to shame for that. Without shame, the ability
to foster guilt, am I still considered human? The drama
of thoughts like this breeds reasoning for forked legs
where I allow the hue of sex to smear. I could know better
than to sacrifice intelligence for pleasure.
Is that what makes art
so desirable? What makes the under-wine flesh tasteful? I should stop
listening to animals lose their mind for blood but my neighbors can’t stop
fucking so why pretend? A man explodes inside me a few times
a month and I wonder what my art hums like. You ever see that movie
where a group of crows dive-bomb a boy until he falls dead
in the field, he asks. A murder, I say. A group of crows is called a murder.
