collection of the scarab
published by the round (xxvi edition), january 2025
TRÓGLIA Decus
The whore said sit and the man said there’s nowhere to sit. The whore said then stand and so the man just stood there.
Strip, she said. He stripped. She pointed a long nail at the corner of the white room. The man carried his clothes and placed them on a pile of ashes. By the time he’d turned around, she was already naked – laid on the sheepskin rug.
She ran her ngers through the fur. Before you come, grab one of the matches and light the pile on re. Her voice was soft as snow.
The man just stood there. He picked a match and scrabbed it against the side of the matchbox. A icker jumped like a chuckle; then his clothes were burning.
Lazily, the woman lit a cigarette and tapped the blinding rug. Come here.
The naked man sat on his knees, hands on his dick. The woman took his hand and held it. She inhaled smoke.
You like my hair? she asked. The man nodded.
When I lie on this rug, our hair becomes one. I melt on it like wax.
They fucked on the rug.
She said I’m a pyromaniac hypochondriac and I keep this room white so I can see blood – in case blood falls. She smiled so big the room was on fire.
Sarca
“If I gave birth I would erupt, ash the ground would cover, all life, including mine, would bleed out
i’ll be mold. or shell. the polar opposite of sarca”
The coee barista poured foam on my cappuccino and frowned. She said, “that’s what she said?” “Exactly like that, that’s exactly what she said,” I said.
She pushed the cappuccino in front of me. She tried to make a tree – or a ower, I suppose – with regular milk on top of the foam but it looked like shit. I didn’t want to tell her.
“This looks like shit,” I said.
Then, a very sad man walked in. He stood under the “Best Airport Food & Beverage” award; his eyes scanned with indolent curiosity, as there were plenty of tables to sit. His eyes landed nowhere, and with no hesitation or doubt to where he was headed, he walked to the most hidden, darkest corner. He sat on the table, removed his green scarf and placed it folded by the salt, took o his glasses and put them in a leather case, shrank on the chair and stared at the painting next to him. It was too dark for me to see the details – but I thought his chest attered a little, so I assumed he was sobbing.
“Anyway,” I said to the barista, “that’s the hard part about living with a poet. I have no clue what she’s saying most of the time. She could’ve said: you know, I’m not really into giving birth.”
I downed the cappuccino and realized I ordered an espresso martini plus foam (that’s what I drink when I’m upset).
“So are you going to give birth instead?” she asked, a bit concerned. “Are you pregnant?”
“I had my uterus removed when I was ve because I was jealous of my cat getting neutered. The same vet did it,” I said.
I said, “I said to my parents, I said: if you don’t neuter me tomorrow, I will do it myself.” I looked over to the man and I couldn’t be more certain. He was a veterinarian.
The barista didn’t give a ying fuck about engaging in a human conversation. As long as she hadn’t served alcohol to a fetus, all she had to do was nod.
“My poet left me,” I said.
She said, “one second” and approached the vet while he was still staring at the painting. She spoke to him but he didn’t turn to look. She took his order and came back behind the bar.
“So that’s why you’re here? Airport breakup melancholia?”
I didn’t appreciate the irony so I stood up and left. But rst I stopped by the vet’s table and asked if he was a vet. He said “my business involves all types of animals but,” he turned to the painting, “I’m hardly the one who cures anyone. You know, I –”
“Damn,” I said and walked away, because he wasn’t poetic enough and he wasn’t a vet, and the milk of the foam might have been expired.