He’d shoot curdled cream up my cervix
and roar, you’re mine, till death.
He’d bought me a coffin
kept it in the hayshed for storing calf nuts,
until – it was needed.
I put rat poison in the lamb casserole,
froze the leftovers.
When I decluttered the wardrobe
the door slammed,
Pick my shirts off the floor, bitch.
Finally his voice withered
when I defrosted the freezer.
I gave his fingers to the dog.
The rest of him, too tough even for a stew,
I threw in the stove, lit lavender
candles to mask the smell.
His penis was the last to burn
no more forced entries after that.