Waiting for the BeastDonald Illich
Because the beast is coming to visit, I've prepared my body to be eaten, rubbed myself with garlic, added rosemary and thyme, a big fat apple in my mouth, ready to be a meal. Leaving the door open, I scan the horizon for its approach, a happy animal singing about good mornings and slaughter. It might be playing with the sheep, using them as currency in a brutal poker game. It might be practicing being venomous in a reflective pond, his growling face still not intense enough for the killing it'll do. As the victim, I both want to help it, give it a super-heated hug, and wish for its disappearance from this world. Why should my flesh be that which sustains its being, and the other predators become more fearless because of its victory over life, some dressing as grandmothers in beds, others sneaking behind rocks, prepared to topple off a cliff and splat on the earth. I just fear the touch of its black paw: how it chilled me everywhere, how I knew this was the only thing I would ever feel, so I should bless it, give thanks to the world.
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