Digestive Tractability

He spat on his food, cutting
Her into strips of tender
Loving meat, so that he alone
Would be eager to suck
All of the flavor out, chew,
And, grinding her into pulp,
Let her become briefly
Acquainted with his inner
Self, a tangled, wet machinery
That is satisfied not by filling
But by continually purging.

She was rare, a well-marbled
Beauty. She had bled sweetly,
Diluting herself as she hissed
Happily in heat. Now just a bone,
She is gnawed on by a dog,
Who will probably choke
On her stabbing splinters.
But He, he will yet gorge
Himself, until his arteries
Stop up, and his heart
Will cease its beatings.