She Dog A ticky rain of blood from her back fur—why did her sex confuse me? Femme, she loved girls, and her mustache neutered her. Fur tangled and burred, whole plants clung to her. She teethed them free, then bit me. The eyes behind those bangs of hers flinty, wary. Too-sensitive for a toothbrush, mateless, alien in grin and now dead, still my hands want to feel the heartbeat stubborn inside her, my consolation, not hers. Mermaid The artist who stitched her legs together-- for chastity? For media coverage, a syndrome, perhaps a desire to swim backward in time, pre- when there were roaming wolves, when there were iridescent worms the size of-- How did she pee? Or swim. Manage the wheelchair? My memory falters – her name? She didn't shoot herself like the Austrian man, limb by limb, or chop off bits, castration so similar. She was female, forgotten. What stitch, the needle inserted, what thread, what topical pain-killer or not? The legs want to run. Terese Svoboda’s seventh book of poetry, Professor Harriman's Steam Air-Ship, launched in London in October, 2016. She has work published or forthcoming in New York Times, Diagram, and Cortland Review.