there was a certain peace. A lax-
ness free of expectation. I wondered
how he managed to swallow me
whole, but it wasn’t a big worry.
Should I explain how the blade thundered
through the wall of my new home? How axe-
light poured in to reveal half her face
a mere breath from mine, her end the less
kind? She must have struggled was all
I could think. Why not go instead still?
She was split, all pit and rind. Chaos.
I was the one. It was not her place
to take the place of my uncorrupted
corpse, to mess with dead. He tore her up.
The better to line (my dear) my wet red nest.
Kirsten Kaschock is the author of four poetry books and a novel. She teaches at Drexel University and edits a dance review journal, thINKing DANCE.