Turkey by Denis Bell

May 1, 2016

She promised to baste you today, but here you are almost done and she still hasn’t arrived. She visits you often now. Usually before noon, for she has business to conduct in the afternoon and she likes to eat early.

It’s so hot in here, you feel like you are about to croak. Your skin is peeling and for the last hour or so you’ve been oozing juices from blisters on your back. You’re sitting in the oven in a cast iron roasting pan, surrounded by potatoes and carrots, a pop-up timer stuck into your chest. You’ve prepared yourself like a turkey, the way she likes you. Trussed up with your legs tied neatly together in front, seasoned with garlic salt, stuffed with apple dressing and covered with sun blocker to facilitate browning.

Hard edges rounded to a fault, she can chew on you without cutting the inside of her mouth. So you let her. After she spits out the gristly parts, if you’ve been good to her, she might show you into one of her soft places.
She has so many soft places, sometimes it overwhelms you. You count them at night to help you sleep. When you dream it is about being inside her, filling those places. But not in the sexual way; in the lining of her stomach, her liver, her spleen…

Sharing oneself with another human being, this is the meaning of love so you have heard. And it is a kind of love, you tell yourself. It’s all a matter of chemistry. The goal, of course, is absorption, and if you will only invest enough of yourself in her, eventually it is sure to come.


Denis Bell is a mathematics professor and a writer. His short fiction has been published in many literary journals, both online and print.