He was the one who saw me
just before I changed,
before bark/fur/snow closed over
my mouth before my eyes grew eyes.
I should not have shown fear,
or so much leg.
His look of disbelief -
I didn’t mean to!
Just, her neck was so much more
fragile than I thought.
The gods don't listen to reason,
they need what they need -
that suntan line at the bottom
of the spine, those teeth like mouthwash,
that drop of sweat pearling
the upper lip -
or that's what gets said in court.
Why talk when you can whisper?
Rustle, like dried leaves.
Under the bed.
It's ugly here, but safer.
I have eight fingers
and a shell, and live in corners.
I'm free to stay up all night.
I'm working on
these ideas of my own:
venom, a web, a hat,
some last resort.
He was running,
he was asking something,
he wanted something or other
Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House
