JC Bouchard

They cut it out like a tick, like a dog’s neck slathered in vinegar.
Infection pushed out: the whale, silent husk, dismantled, split—granules of sand, engorged.
Fallen out like a peach pit, ensconced in flesh, sun glimmered & wet, bent—pipe-cleaner bones.
Masked chatter overpowered the stench, petrified; skin blubber gagging, the body dead.
The sea washed the sea, inside the sea—rehearsed violence.

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