Thought 453

I watched as her sweater slowly devoured her.
From the moment she discovered the benign-looking thing,
it started insidiously gnawing at her wrists
until it sucked up her thumbs
and finally ingested each finger with a slurp
leaving only the gaping maws of hanging python sleeves
with the telltale lumps of her bony fists
awaiting more complete digestion just inside the cuffs
from which her hands used to hang.

The sweater sucked the fat from her neck and face,
her hood subtly chewing off the ends of her hair-
gnawing her head to total alopecia
before licking out the light from her eyes
like whipped cream off a sundae.

The sweater spread to her bones and her spirit
consuming her femurs until she could no longer stand it
and her cold feet folded easily into the sweater's inviting mouth
her own mouth fading into the draw-string pursed lips of the knitted abyss.

She breathed her last few rattling breaths
before the sweater swallowed those too.


Mora Torres' work has been published in The Pony Express, Cul-de-sac, Fortunates, Emerge and many, many bathroom stalls. She lives in Los Angeles, drinks lattes and scowls at the passersby. This sustains her.