WEBVTT

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"Little Gals."

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"They come at night
on membranous wings.

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I'm a soft deer
browsing the woods

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with strands of
willow in my pelt.

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When they lean in
to call me out,

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I shiver and shine
in my thicket of one.

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Do they know about
the botch in my belly?

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I think it's a gel where
the white light rots.

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One says, you know?

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It's past time you
bred, and opens

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her mouth full of egg teeth.

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You must have some kind of
hatch for it, says another.

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Or hole, says the
third, clicking.

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All three hang in
the night air--

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identical silk faces,
identical jaw wires--

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wanting to scoop me
into their high humming.

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I gallop, deep in shade,
past grease-marked trees

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to the lake where March mud
dashes up my burning legs.

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But soon, I feel them
again at my belly,

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spinning their round
nymph-full selves,

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pressing their 100 eyes.

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There is a red delight in the
heat and snap of their pincers.

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They've made themselves
so much finer this time.

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New mouth parts, new
bodies, brewing all

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through my undercoat
where I let them dig down

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into the dim places."

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