Razor Beak

Jessica Heron

Flick each one in mouth until mouth is crammed with clinking. On

tip of tongue sharp fine edges flip. What fun, wrappers like rice

paper, delicate Japanese delights. Mini steel swords named Shark,

Feather touch soft tissue, sail through jaw bone skin, rip, shred

thick protectant. Unruly rips ooze blood through tooth gaps, mouth

locked shut to suck. Sucking metal tastes blood-metal, soaks pale

skin, brown red, grin. More blood-mess, more grins, more drips

more mush, less lips, less mouth. Face bones show through holes,

less the body more the goal to meet delicious demise with dripping

smile: to smile rightly: crunch, slice, crunch, slice snacks from

ziplock baggy packed in brown paper shipped overseas then

intercepted by greedy scheming razor beak teeth.

Jessica Heron has been published in Wormwood Magazine and Pitch/Niche. Her work is forthcoming or published in the Horror Zine and Black Petals. Jessica is thrilled to be a November 2021 poet for the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project. You can find her walking New Jersey’s parks and beaches most days.