"Circe's Guests"

(this poem first appeared in Liminality Summer 2017)

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There were no ulnae under the skin to begin
hardhair trotter pretending to be the sole of shoe

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abattoir hands gifted in the alchemy of spinal fluid

and the sweaty manufacture of gelatin and totems

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expert in the ways of fascinus and pins. Extractor of

 

marrow and the cage around it so she knew
with a sniff these were soup bones

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surrounded by a layer of sailor

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now go in under your skin
and find your answers there