The First Time I Cooked Chicken.

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Pink is the colour of life
Of new babies’ wet heads
And open screaming mouths

Pink is the rose hip of a woman at the heart
Of what’s between her hips
And the tip of my tongue between bud lips

Pink is the hum of your mouth and sun drenched
Capillary silhouettes through closed eyes
As you sink into the depths of her.

There’s the hint of pink on daisies when
They open their petals to say
Hello to the birth of a new day

But pink is also the colour of death
As the knife slides between the flesh
And separates it into food

Pink is a suggestion of sickness when I pierce the skin and dissect
The sinews and glimpse the tint of it and turn it to the
Heat to kill the pink and the possibility.

It’s the quiver of the comb atop feathers
And the neck as it’s sliced from the body
By the executioner’s axe

It’s the colour of cunt
And the hint in the sky
When the cock crows.

Lipstick by Lara Zankoul. Digital image.