I can count on twelve hands the men I have swallowed whole:
it’s a record. if you lined them up I would be done in a minute
and ask for more. there is no name for what happened to me,
except that men came here and did not return to their homes.
on a Saturday my doorbell rings and I am sprawled on my bed,
awaiting the in-mate whose groans will outmatch my screams.
Amaechi is reported missing on Monday. Do you have a towel
I can use while I watch the news? I join the search-party, sated
and confident my belly will not spit him out, feigning a frantic
spell. By noon I am licking my lips. The doorbell rings. Come in.