Rachel L. Myers 🔈

It came out late, the story about
the whale’s head. How he rushed
to the beach with his children, chainsaw-
laden, to see what piece he could take.
At the van, he strapped his trophy
to the roof. Only their lips and eyes
were exposed, under plastic bags to
protect from smell and splatter. Putrefaction
streamed down the windows with every turn.
Cars passing honked. Later, his daughter said
That was just normal, day-to-day stuff for us.
They failed to see it: how they looked,
featureless, wet with grey sludge and gore,
as if they, too, were freshly hewn.