Chitterlings

I went down to the Miner’s Club
to see a bloke about a cutting tool
and though I’d never called him
by his Christian name
the brown ale flowed
 
and as his tongue was loosed
he let slip the location of the place
where the village’s interiors were stored.
An old abandoned shaft.
Secrets stacked so tight
they lined the walls.
 
A shop-girl’s termination.
The banker’s bondage toys.
A priest whose ever-open hand
swished the flies of altar boys.
 
Under a full moon, he said,
you could hear them whisper
and for a small recompense
he’d steal you in.
 
When we were done
I left him drowning in his boots.
Sliced a hole in the roof
with the cutting tool.
The chitterlings shrieked out like bats.
Then there was silence.

Joe Cullen

If you have any comments on this poem,  Joe Cullen  would be pleased to hear from you.