by Moira J.
I am standing, unleashed, in a field of wild foxgloves,
and see their mouths slit wide as weeping
sunsets, their barks stacked like woodpiles. We
try to reformulate their mouths into teeth-holes,
but instead our mother chastises our efforts
“You can’t save what’s already been skinned.”
She ties our wrists again into knots of cotton,
and walks us home. We bray as wild dogs
without comfort or community.
And just like God is to the Saskatoon,
we watch the corpses seep into the soil,
pulpy blood staining the soles of our shoes in
We itch our wrists absentmindedly,
unable to remember if we have seen
this scene before. Our mother tugs
the lead a little harder, and we bound forward,
continuing to decimate the bodies we encounter.
We watch our socks become stuffed
with petals and incisors.
Moira J. is an Indigenous cyber brat and avid watcher of early 2000's teen dramas. They reside either in the PNW or New England. Moira's work has appeared in Phoebe Journal, Words Dance Publishing, Third Point Press, and more. They have upcoming pieces with Cosmonauts Avenue, the Shade Journal, Frontier Poetry, and more. You can find them on Twitter @moira__j.