Mange Meat | The Nation
We’re so late-stage that we trade our storm-wet cash for
synthetic fuzz, as if fleece wasn’t the shorn warmth
of a bleating thing.
There is a new wolf in me this winter and I can’t keep it fed.
I can’t stray near livestock, can’t turn up to casual drinks
in blood, musk, and appetite.
I’d pay a lot for a fence that could hold me. When it becomes
Queens, the bus route runs along Fresh Pond Rd without
even rumor of reservoir.
Today was the day I paid for a new gym membership and also
the day I told the sales associate I’d be cancelling it after the
first month, I’m just visiting.
I’m trying to say that I’m trying to stay out in the elements
until I can’t feel much of myself. I proffered my share
of the rent, but no one took it.
At night, the meat of me is tender. What is a predator to do,
soaked through? I wore wool, weatherlogged and weighing.
Looked good enough to go home with.
A mouth rough enough it broke skin without asking. And that
was okay. I can’t find the scar anymore when I want it,
want someone else’s teeth to sink.