Meat Eaters

by Sarah Bogdan

They gave me a nametag and a uniform
I count coins and wonder,
  “Who will be hungry today?”
Sausage-like fingers grip thick wads of
bills and sticky cards

I tap on the screen and say, “seventeen dollars”
He answers, “I’ll give you seventeen
  if you come home with me tonight.”
Since when did someone put a barcode on my forehead?

I remember nightmares of a grizzly, when I was
torn apart, licked up by a sawtooth tongue

Now I’m awake but still cut into bite-size pieces
  by the sharp knife of a gaze
  He sings a sewer’s symphony
notes spiraling into a pool of umber

but it’s dirty fingernails,
  it’s always dirty fingernails
Sometimes I find them on my shoulder

They follow me to where there are no streetlights,
only miles of dark parking lot
  between me and my car

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Sarah Bogdan is a graduate student in the MA TESOL program. She aspires to teach English to international students, and in her spare time, she enjoys reading, writing, painting, and watching psychological thrillers and indie films. Her poem, “Meat Eaters,” was inspired by her time working at a sketchy grocery store and is a commentary on the horrors that women often encounter while living in the city or working with the public.

This piece was selected as the first-place winner in the October 2021 Horror Micro-Contest.