At times the sun goes dark in my dreams
the longer I watch it—my tight-throated bird lungs
bind themselves to core. We are held together
as if by snake, this python devouring our land every morning
my sternum wakes halfway. Each time I lick
my fingers red with need, with wrenching blackout
from southern wall, with open sun blinding
to retina. Leopardess: Choose the hill into which you’ll decompose, choose
the bone you’ll pick around your canines like the scratch of steel
hunting-knife. Someday I will let myself wake
before the sun like you. Somewhere on a hillside I will let myself
raise a litter of German shepherds, a flock
of Rhode Island reds. I will let myself grow ecosystems
from these hands.
Alexa Abrahams is an undergraduate student at Salisbury University.
Beaver Magazine 