Arcade, by Erin O’Quinn (posted with permission)

After seeing my earlier poem, Erin responded with one of her own, and then posted a call to flash fiction or poetry responses. Those will be posted separately, so they don’t get lost.

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We toured the tonsils of the beast
led by a bored museum guide
through the gullet
down to the gut
where aeons of seawater
sluicing through
had left hollow ulcerated pools
in the bone.
Look, my son said,
how funny he is now
that he’s dead.

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