Roadkill

Cradled like a newborn, the amber belly

tender as any fontanelle. My palm pillows

its tufted head on the kitchen table.

Skinning is a dark art. My knifework

exacting, but the paws and ears remain

tricky. I scrape muscle and fat from the hide,

pay close attention to the tail,

wash away blood and dirt with gentle

detergent but a sour-milk scent remains.

My husband comes home, kisses me

with his lover’s mouth. I pour two glasses

of whisky, drink them both.

Morag Anderson