"gangrene" genre: Poetry
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	a surreal poem about the aftermath of divorce via dream, originally published in Thunder Sandwich #17
	Credits: C. E. Laine
	Lyrics gangrene a swollen eggplant (bruised and sweetly rotting) replaced my arm in my sleep. a doctor wearing a goatee and a crisp white gown produced a swiss army knife, serrated blade exposed. sawing raggedly as I watched, he explained to me the fundamentals of doughnuts. I didn't know the holes had such significance. my limb fell to the floor with a wet thwack and lay still. my new stump did not bleed. I thought it should hurt. the kind doctor carried my severed limb without reverence to a long planked table where he set it on a clean cloth. my ex was the first to grab utensils and dig in smiling around mouthfuls of me. his sister picked daintily at my meat, complaining about her allergies and her asthma. he rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with the final decree of divorce that arrived in the mail just yesterday. when I related this strange dream to my mother, she said "gangrene".

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