"Circe's Guests"

(this poem first appeared in Liminality Summer 2017)

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

abattoir hands gifted in the alchemy of spinal fluid

and the sweaty manufacture of gelatin and totems

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

surrounded by a layer of sailor

now go in under your skin
and find your answers there

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