I wrote a love letter to a gold
Admiring her orange,
And curvaceous belly,
The underside of a thumb.

She never wrote me back,
Or blew me a bubble,
As if to say:
Don’t take this personally,
You just have weirdly small,

fish are not so good at love,
And mammals make too many

I am training
Myself to forget
Why I feel empathy,
Toward a

Take my feet and place them,
In a Plexiglas
And call it the sea.

Consider the undeniable truth:
A foot begins an arch
way for
As they conduct serious
Like making themselves delicious and
Eating smaller

Return to them
Natural architecture

Cook my feet on easy,
Until the flesh
Is red,
Snap my soles like a wishbone,
Serve me with a blade of lemon,

Donate my skin to the sharks,
So that they can use it,
As table sheets,
For when their mothers-in-law,
To visit.

David Whelan

David Whelan

David Whelan is a writer from London, England. He holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Fiction at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst. He is a co-founder and Fiction Editor of Crag, a literary journal of the weird, and Contributing Editor at Cosmonauts Avenue.
David Whelan

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