The weekend you told me things
were only as real as I let them be
we went away. I thought I’d breathe
cleaner in a place with water, wood
and leaves fresh dead with winter.
There are times when I am not much
more than fur, and noise, and fury. That place
where I keep the fists, the fear, the feel of stone
teeth against wet skin? The moon can unlock it
on a whim and all of it will tumble out, a great
black sheet, for me to drape myself in.
Your palm to my mouth, your mouth
to my ear, I spent the night
braying and weeping, all moans and howls,
my nails in your skin trying to scratch out
a place to bury my terror. This is not what
we wanted when we first met.
It is something else. St. Anthony’s fire. A fungus
spreading slowly, its roots reaching out
its fingers with my fingers.
This is what we have now: my palms against the
wheel, windshield wipers peeling back sheet after
sheet of rain, and the bite of our eyes nipping
feverishly at the road as we search for monsters.
Something to pin down and give the blame.
Couri Johnson is currently in her last semester at the North Eastern Ohio Master in Fine Arts. She is working on finishing up a novel, and typically writes speculative fiction but has been known to pen a poem or two. She’s had work published in Deimos eZine, Aphelion and Poppy Road Review.
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