I lost my fur in the fire earlier this year
just outside the city with yellow high
way road signs. You always drive when
we are together. The scythe near your hip for
the quick puncture of tires. The hiss. Cotton
mouth in the grass tells me I am gay & sad
says I'm tasteless. Says pit vipers love without fur.
In the fire, the river all but evaporated. In the fire, I
measure you gone for good. Tendons stretch
across the bank for the last time. I walk across
them, politely. Thank you for your Achilles.
The shifting quiver slung, slanged.
Originally from Los Angeles, Scout Katherine Turkel is a writer studying at the University of California, Berkeley where she currently serves as an Editor in Chief of the Berkeley Poetry Review
. Her work can be found in Two Peach Journal
and Tunnel Magazine
More by Scout Katherine Turkel: