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.
