by Alexa Curnutte
like change, itches his black powder beard. Stays outside.
leave them on the
dinner table to
remind him Tonight I follow.
pews stacked with tin dishes
crushed edges with the force of canines
to hold the blood, the bread. A hungry
wet impatience pacing on
Blue fabric scratches my thighs,
teeth turn pink. A long tongue on
We live the Beasts. Our hollow’s‐
stuffed with dry brown needles
Chickens pluck for pine in the yard
after dark. Feel the twinge. The hunt.
My thirsty mouth sucks from faucet out back.
Feel the muscle morph.
We watch through
mulberry bushes. Lick lips
vibrating black skins in our lung.
Our fingers dig good muscle
peel back brown feather. Eat.
We pad the humid swamp, black mud
There’s banshees, out here. Hide
the hackles, the holy water beading silver
on my lips.
father? Or go inside?
I can’t taste the wafer. The Psalm.
domain of sweat and
animal dirt. Father places
bodies. Our sin amongst the Creatures.
Knuckling along under black pelt
Yellowed eyes pupils dilate. My mouth
Firelight and shadow. Ghosts of
the gospel. Growling.
Sappy wooden coffin in
Church Meat, at Home.
Hollyhocks in our ribs from
the brush. Pawing our blisters.
What was wanted.
Licking the coppery blood away.
Author Biography: Alexa Curnutte is a sophomore at Interlochen Arts
Academy. She plans to eventually go on and study International Relations
at university. Alexa is an animal lover and classic literature fanatic- she
hopes to one day read the entire Everyman’s Library.