by Chris Buchanan
Poetry, 2026

Our Donna
stood tall as a spire of sweaty meat,
stuck in a kitchen on a city centre square
staked on a pole, slowly spinning,
streaks of her skin sliding off under saline,
but stuck still and taken for granted.

She vanished piece by piece, every night shedding satisfaction
for salivating strangers seeking something more,
sharing of her salt in silence.

She perished – not so fast that folks saw and sobbed –
– not even slow so that we were sick of the sight and the stink –
but steady,
at the speed where the guy who slid her slick off the spit
and hauled up another one,
singing to himself and licking his lips,
didn’t even notice her slip away.