by Aozora Brockman

The kill is quick 
   one chop
hangs the head          lolling
free finally      of neck
     slippery feet squawk
gripping ground in circles
to outrun the taste
of oxygen 
Somehow, within the folds
  of clenching skin
a body runs   without a mind—
is this what we will become
when memories pop
  unstoppable, in air?