Mornings I listen to the thonk, thonk, thonk of the woodcutter’s axe, his labor a depletion of my world. Yes, he’s brawny— he can
The stag’s heart spoke (as it passed through my throat) of desire. I’ve held the strangest of strangers. To swallow, the quickest way to
All mouth, she stole infants and cattle, wanting pulled thigh, the fat that grills up yellow, marrow, the lungs—pale yellow of a strawflower. All