Little Bo Peep Comes to Farm Town
It’s God’s day, but I wear thigh highs beneath my Bible. Maybe that’s why He took my flock. My lambkin lost, I feel forsaken. I witness crooks and necks that crane toward this skirt impractical for tending sheep or even nailing up Have You Seen Me? posters. My heart bled once when the livestock lost their tails. Again when I looked out at the hills thinking that they missed me. (That night, I’d find their woolly nubs nailed to a tree.) I’m a girl on the go, owning nothing now, owing on this ridiculous get-up. What good is pretty, petty unemcumberence when you have no reason to be? I find a shitty dive with Photohunt a buck a game. It’s afternoon. In the dark I drink drafts and play addition or subtraction of body parts and black straps and wisps of hair on naked women. I’m foolish, but not so easily fooled: in one photo she’s whole, in the other incomplete.
Disguised as a lover, he was all clover. Dressed as a December hunter: a genuine risk. He waited me out in the snowy hedge. I said, Go home, predator, but he became a compulsive visitor. Knock knock, he called with his teeth. Knock knock, he called without knocking at all. He said, I saw those large snow patches and thought you’d need help melting them. I battened the hatches, eyed him through discount curtains. Beneath the moonlight, he poached field eggs, stripped wild grass, drained the milk keg, dismembered the rabbit hutch. He knotted the hose through the branches like sin. The mailbox spilled quills, spit fur at visitors. The Wolf shammed an exit but recurred while I dreamed of cartoon buzzsaws, of rolling pin pursuits, of tarring and feathering him. I discovered fire. You’ll like it, he hissed. But spring made good and caused the ice to crack. The Wolf tumbled toward the big sea coast. He floated out into summer because his mama never taught him manners and he never learned to swim. Autumn now. I still feel fangs through the door: Just this once, he asks without asking at all.