Taxidermy
This is a work of fiction. TW: psychological abuse
.
.
.
The tablecloth bleached to bone,
her hands a pendulum of salt and pepper.
Outside dusk stitches the sky to the horizon—
First, you make the incision,
she says, lifting a spoon, tracing its curve
like a scalpel. Clean. Unhurried.
The soup steams between us,
a broth of parsnip and something darker.
Her voice, a museum placard:
My great-grandfather’s hobby was taxidermy—
to unpeel life without bruising the skin,
stuff absence back into the shape of motion.
Her knife finds the butter. Splits it. Gently.
A muted conquest in an era of brutal ones.
In his time, every beast had its place—
on a plaque, behind glass, never alive.
She speaks in labeled boxes: Rattlesnake. Sparrow. Wren.
Every ‘r’ sewed back to its lifeless body.
Formaldehyde and patience.
You’d be surprised what stays soft
if handled with cold intent.
A pause.
Her eyes glide over my wrists, my throat—
You’d look good like that,
she offers, blade hovering mid-air,
a silver thread in the amber light
Obsidian eyes glass-bright. Pose permanent.
Her smile, a needle’s edge
Have you ever thought about it?
The clock swallows its ticks.
My napkin crumples to a fist.
Speak of what you saw, she murmurs softly,
sawing her steak into perfect, red cubes,
and you’ll join his collection.
Her fork tines gleam.
Somewhere, a moth taps at the window
begging to be let in,
or out.
@azurePond
Once more I am enthralled! A spine tinglingly menacing and sinister atmosphere pervades the entire piece. It has the slow burn menace of a horror story which is amplified by the strange blending of the mundane and the macabre elements. The main character is such a fantastically crafted persona; cold, clinical, and yet conversing in a manner that seems intimate and intimidating at the same stroke.
The ever present references to mortality and the use of metaphors makes the outside world seem to shrink to the oppressive closeness of the conversation, and bleed into the extended metaphor of taxidermy. It almost feels like everything is being drawn in tighter and tighter, pushing out all air until the voice and physical motions of the speaker become the entire world. One terrifying presence who's every subtle gesture seems laced with latent threat, and even the mundane objects of a spoon and butterknife hold mysteriously malignant intent.
You have made some truly wonderful lines; "Her hands a pendulum of salt and pepper", "She speaks in labelled boxes: Rattle snake, Sparrow, Wren. Every 'r' sewed back to it's lifeless body", "Speak of what you saw, she murmurs softly, sawing her steak into perfect red cubes". Awesome! There is so much to unpick here in these three sets of lines alone, and that is just a snapshot of the very clever techniques being employed to give such a grisly feeling without any need for the visceral. It plumbs psychological horror with as deft a hand as the main character.
And such a character. A blend of dichotomous contradictions yet coherent and deceptively amiable in a detached and amoral way. One feels the discomfort of the narrator, and we squirm too as those "Obsidian eyes glass-bright. Pose permanent." pin them in place. Alongside the very creepy taxidermy image, it also brought to mind the lifeless gaze of an approaching shark and the callous curiosity of the cat playing with something it has trapped.
The fact that the conversation is happening over a meal only increases the tension, as again something homely is tainted with the overpowering presence of the taxidermic references. It makes the scene feel unwholesome and gives it a wrongness that is hard to define.
The whole poem feels interwoven with a subtext of mortality, preservation and destruction, as well as maybe traditions or ritual. The main character seems to not only narrate the past, but to embody it in thought, deed, and even in spirit. There behaviour comes across as didactic but not for the benefit of the narrator. Rather it seems empty, or perhaps even self glorifying, and very predatory. Again, the feeling of a cat debating whether to torment for a little while more to see what happens or to finally move in for the kill is hard to dispel from ones mind. The meal setting almost serving as a ghoulish foreshadowing.
The final lines of the moth tapping at the window with ambiguity as to whether it is begging to be let in or escape is very chilling. It reminds us just how fragile and precarious the narrators position is and how perception becomes warped, unable to view the trap or act against it.
I have barely scratched the surface I feel of this poem. It was very intense, and so immersive. I really love your macabre pieces, and think the techniques you have employed in this one are so subtle and seamless. Listing them I think would be redundant, not to mention distracting for those who just want to enjoy the poem for the powerful emotions and images it conjures. So I shall stop blathering and just give a standing ovation.
*Applauds heartily*
@BastionKnight Oh wow.....thank you so much!!! I feel like I should frame this and hang it on my wall just to remind myself that maybe I do, in fact, know how to put words together. Your breakdown is so beautifully detailed that I almost forgot I was the one who wrote the poem! I’m beyond thrilled that the atmosphere and imagery landed the way I hoped...especially the taxidermy motif and the unsettling meal setting. The "shark gaze" and "cat playing with its food" comparison? That is exactly the kind of lurking, quiet menace I was aiming for (I had to write, rewrite, condense and omit words, and replace words like a mad man. And that was worth it! This poem is the final version, at first it was longer and quite boring ) And the fact that you caught the tension between the character's detachment and the eerie intimacy? ... You have trained eyes and heart for literary criticism. Honestly....I feel like I should be the one applauding you for this analysis—it’s such a gift to have someone engage so deeply with my work. So, thank you Bastion Knight. * Bows dramatically, possibly trips over own feet *
@azurePond
For some reason unknown to me, I cannae show my appreciation for your posts at the moment as the heart function for thee and thee alone does not work. So in lew of that, I shall do this instead...
*Runs back and forwards scattering heart icons like confetti*
@BastionKnight I graciously accept this digital confetti of affection.... *Catches a handful of heart icons and dramatically tosses them back into the air ❤️✨ *
@azurePond
I hope you do not think therefore that I have not been taking note or enjoying your other posts across the forums. They have all been very much appreciated, from your amazing educational essays, funny comments, and/or supportive statements. There may not be a heart to mark my visit, but hopefully you can still imagine me clanking away in the background.
*Offers a salute with a flourish*
@BastionKnight That truly means a lot...thank you! Knowing that you've been noticing and appreciating my posts, even without a visible mark, makes it all the more special. I’ll definitely imagine you clanking away in the background and I’ll keep an eye out for your insightful (and delightfully flourished) salutes 🫡✨.....Aaanndd since you’re out here being an invisible knight, camouflaging in the digital jungle, I wanted to give you a little challenge (not a duel—I’m not that reckless to challenge a knight to a duel) next time some wandering soul asks for directions to the hall of poetry.... before tagging me or others (which I TRULY APPRECIATE...it does wonders to my self esteem).... try saying "I also write poetry"
Maybe you haven’t reached the point where you declare "I am a poet" ...but I hope one day you do—because you already are one. Not saying it won’t change the truth. I still say "I write poems' or "I dabble in poetry" but I hope you (and I) will claim it fully someday. Because you truly are a poet—and one of the best✨