for all the things i couldn't say to you:

three fistfuls of fermented seaweed. dip it into the black river where she sits

​

it drips the scent of fish left two weeks out of the sun with a hint of blueberries and sweat, a
dark scent that lingers uncomfortably in the back of your nose. a rotting body; dead or alive.

​

the marrow of a chicken bone carved out with the back of a wooden spoon

​

she runs it across your spinal cord and calls you obedient as each spike is severed from the
muscle. it will make for a fuller taste, she hums.

​

half a hand of broken-hearted blood that drips from old lines around the ribcage;
another half, of the burning sensation after she grips your windpipe and asks why
you've decided to hurt her

​

( it is important they come in equal parts or the mixture will be volatile, it'll be too happy to
consume and too bright to sustain itself in the underworld. )

​

wrap chives, onion stems, coriander and black peppercorns in the thin cloth she
fashions from the muscles right around your dimples

​

beneath it: your flesh is tender and raw. she pulls your cheeks down — they bleed where she
touches. enough smiling, she says, settling your face into the resting position for a corpse.
"what a strange thing to say, how else will they know it is me then?" she doesn't answer. the
river-lady takes out a knife and continues the embalming process.

​

three parts of a body that came from another body, they must have changed each other
from birth and forever be a part of each other always; boil well

​

cut yourself into three parts, she tells you — cut yourself or i will give you the three thyroids
right where my throat is. so you take the knife, dig it into the space between your thighs,
aiming to detach instead of carve this time. the sinew breaks away smoothly and the bone

shatters into fragments, burrowing themselves into the bleeding masses of flesh. the
lady-by-the-river picks them out as you work on your neck, she slices them and tosses the
chunks of meat into the broth. it is still simmering away as your head comes apart, severing
the hair moss, she tosses that into the pot too.

 

remove scum from the soup

​

she scoops out the impurities gently and pours it over what remains of you. with each ladle,
the jagged edges where your skill was poor turns indistinct. you help to wipe off the drying
bits as she hands you a bowl of soup.

​

drink it

​

what will happen when it's all over, where does the death end and the life begin; will it matter
that i was good now when i will be nothing then. drink, drink, she waves at you hurriedly, it's
to cleanse out your toxins. the heat is your heart, the cold is in your body, and the soul is on
your tongue. shake your existence off, settle your soul down in the sand like a pair of salted
eggs. cut in half, she weighs its contents on her tongue as though it is an offering of sorts.
acceptable, she says, and swallows it whole.

​

​

​