We were Two Rooms of One Timber, But I Left that Place Alone

Sara, widow, 31 Henry pulled our heartwood along the rutted street that town stood beside, built two rooms and called them home. My Henry did that. There. And I lived all those days inside his love. But there is a kind of hunger that feeds on flesh. Only, let it be yearning, heaving, rising flesh. Only, let it be flesh living and loving. Alive. Let it be life. There is a kind of hunger that feeds on life. They carved into him with banquet knives, made stew of his skin and stirred it with his own bones. My Henry served: the meat and the pot to cook it in. And there was no charge against the men who made that meal.