Velvet & Venison

By Katelynne Davis

I have worn a few furs, but you were the finest thing I have draped across my shoulders
The others – just proof-of-kill. You are a trophy. You are here to be shown.
The skin of an animal is easiest to acquire just after the kill so we did not even bother to tell our respective insignificant others first
It’s hard to reach your cell phone when you’re hanging by your feet
No three-four time for indecision
only a waltzing incision, incision
My hands touch you like surgical markers
I know the tenderest cuts
and how to peel off your skin like a sweater –

Have you ever pictured your lover without their skin?
Pounds of red, raw meat, waterslide veins, your baby-back ribs – and fat.
Eyes that never blink
If you haven’t, you have never seen them naked
Intimacy is always a bit grotesque

Post-coitus, your cutis on the drying rack
I only stretch the truth a little when I say your country was founded by fur-traders
You speak volumes of the vellum pulled off lambs,
of the red ink more popular before it dried black
like a pelt out of season…
(From different forests, you and I, but we both hunt North American
December to March, thus began and ended our scouting)
before you could, I sold you and now you hold all her red hair in your arms like a beaver hat
But I kept some
brought to bed like a boyfriend’s t-shirt
like the stuffed animal of the taxidermist’s daughter

After that I killed for fun; I killed for pleasure
as only a human can

Photo by Katelynne Davis



My Sword

By Alexandria Somirs

“My finger tips, stained of ink,
Swing this sword back and forth.
Swish goes the blade and
Swoosh goes fine-tipped lips.
And off I go all my ten-digit tips,
To the next brushy whisp,
And so I push these lettered-stones,
I push and dance, while my seated stance
becomes ever ached, and ever tired.
Sculpting into a marbled bust
I’m only a mere hand-wizard,
I bubble up a chant or two
With the speed of my sword,
and the drum-tum of pebbled spaces,
The pointy one bruised
by my brute penmanship
The little ones curved
by long friendships
The steady stump always ready
for quick sketchy poems.
So I say on to thee
Need not fear to
take out your tongue,
But beware, what words do say,
for chants and inscriptions
don’t pass without regretful back slashes.”

Photo by Alexandria Somirs