Terrence loses a foot to a cherry and sultana;
the crack of the pressure plate lid,
the steam, the aroma. Before he can stop them,
his squad mates are gnawing his ankle
down to the bone.
They are hirsute with sinew,
lapping hot fruit from the blast crater,
chewing the cauterised stump
as he thrusts and thrusts with his bayonet,
trying to carve out a slice.