By Maggie Mascal
“The witch [sic] was so proud of her beautiful breasts that she retained these in human form and shifted the rest of her body into the usual shaggy wolf shape.” Marika Kriss
They hung from her like gold-tortured lobes—those
of actresses or tribes that point from brain
to heart. Her heart was smart: swallowed
and valved to bring in tides, send tides away.
She had the things she wanted; these two she
would not share with the moon (that sick, scabbed sore
who, relentless, grates herself to a sliver and fills
herself full with blood my teeth steal.) Transformed
she’d pray—I’m perfect. I am sound and still
scraping this ground with better than your mouth—sing
with slicks and strokes. I stretch out to down—feel
what feeds pressed flat in filth. Alive. Alive
I sing. To me. To me. To me. To me
and no one can say I’m not human.