i was eleven and he told me to hold the tail
while he tugged coyote teeth from its open dead mouth
the mouth did not bleed, no
it was open and wiggly and rotting and stinking
i watched his face he watched his hands
my teeth aching for his pulling; for sharing spit medicinally
i collected deer jawbones on my bedside table
dug through owl pellets for skulls; careful not to break them
the proud buck on our mantle was
shot the same day as JFK
my doctor held a popsicle stick onto my tongue
she gushed to me how good it is to look eight at eleven
on my way home I stomped into mud
every flower pushing petals from stuck bulbs
he did not wear my tooth around his neck
we slept in one bed parted by pillows
young desire was crescent moons
carved into my palm; was a diet of flesh from my raw lip
i was much too young, he said
at his big thirteen to my stupid eleven
i’ve never held a gun, but
i ripped out my baby teeth to grow up quicker
Lord, I fear I will tear myself apart to be
jewelry for somebody else’s neck
H.M. Varley is an English Major at the University of Houston. Her works are largely inspired by the woods around Canyon Lake, where she spent her summers and winters as a child, and the southern-gothic feel of the half-abandoned southern countryside. Hadyn McKenna spends most of her days as a Tour Guide at NASA, but when not working or writing, she can either be found at estate sales or with her two lovely cats, Milo and Bingus.
