Taskscapes, by Carey Coombs

TASKSCAPES

First, Catch Your Hare.

Entrails, organs, drawn from my gut,

where grass, herbs, seeds and berries have passed.

Some young fresh bark.

Simple fare.

Hung by my hind legs,

that have stretched and flexed and run.

Evading dogs and men and snares

and carrying an upright boxer

Hanging for a week or two.

My warm long body lying still

in a shallow form.

Still. Lifeless. Empty. At peace.

Severed limbs and carcase pieces,

drowned in Bordeaux’s best.

Tickled with juniper, mace and bay.

Congealed blood added.

Sipped and chewed.

Savoured and ingested.

My blood and my muscle.

Digested.

A mad march maukin.

A trickster.

A witch.

Caught by the scream of a doe.

A myth in a jug.

by Carey Coombs