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Window Sill

by Justin Rigamonti

Three men waited while the fourth died.
Lost among the winter rocks going on
six days now, the company had found
less and less to say. Hungry as hell,
they eyed each other. Could you make food
of human flesh?, their guts asked
as they slouched beside the bluish brick
their friend became. They’d heard of it
being done—some sad, lost group like theirs
eating limbs & buttocks of departed pals.
His name was Charles. What was left
of Charles? Part of him seemed present
yet he wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t respond
and they began to think that Charles
had never actually been a 200 pound bag
of calories—that in fact, he’d only leaned
through its window for awhile and this
was the gift he’d left on the frosty sill.

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