Still Felt It

Dotting the tar, first gushed, then oozed and smudged;

The furry frame shuddered. My stare locked in,

Red still leaching from the body, run over.

Surprised, more relieved, my heart, numb,

Slipped into bystander apathy I’d thought,

Still lived, still felt a feeling.

The convulsing, frail life ebbing away,

Turning into carcass, soon crow-feeding carrion,

Still saddened me. Still.

Cried from mordant chemicals, slashed flesh in dinginess,

Smelled iron for a living, spaded parts,

Burrowed fingers those sloshing fluids,

Wiped blood splotches my unshaven face, splattered while digging.

But it still saddened me the furry struggle, no numbness,

Not inured, smidgens of feelings remained,

Not purged off, yet by phlegmatic spleen

And remorseless solitude, yet.

A man with dead relationships I was, or dying.

No wife endured, women they cringed;

No coitus long enough to bear children.

They came every day, no speaking man,

Just cold, lifeless meat.

Meat was also me, sulking.

Still something filled my chest as I watched;

Perverse delight in feeling the feeling,

Witnessing blood wriggle.

Walking up to the animal, not moving any more,

Barehanded it into the open gutter;

As unforgiving crows cawed.

Best of the Net anthology nominee Ajay Vishwanathan, published in over forty literary journals, including elimae, Haggard and Halloo, and Boston Literary Magazine, lives in a world of words and viruses. He has an obsession for one, shows appreciation for another. His world is based in Georgia.