by Britney Driskel
For Imogene McGehee & Mary Holmes
I.
My chest splinters like bent glass
that cradles grains of sand. Each particle pushes to the front and spills through the thread thin fractures. A handful
nick and bounce off the pellucid saw ready to sever attachment.
I feel the gnashing teeth as those razors dig their points into my flesh.
Puncture wounds spit like a cobra, and out with the flowing sap
that creeps along raised skin, is nothing.
II.
My swan circles the refulgent lake and my hound sits at the waters edge. Beating wings, pawing ripples.
Tail flitting a rainbow in the soil. A mellifluous call from the neck of a trumpet.
An ear shattering crack and a bullet pierces through my swan’s heart.
Pinions stained a carmine dribble and spread out in a halo of oil slick.
My hound whines. Pounding paws imprint recollection like a fossil.
A clamp of serrated metal on bone, gush of tar, and elapse of night and day. Ribs form a carapace. The hide sags.
My hound tears at itself. Swallowing tufts of fur and tissue. Remaining fixed to the dirt that will consume it like a bog.
III.
The water is red. Sticky at my feet. The chiseled phlegmatic look
on my face splits. Fragments tumble and coat a sheen over the surface.
Shards erupt like impaling stingers. Sand pellets scatter in rays.
Particles fall from my eyes and crumble to dust.
I suffer the plunge of the bullet in my heart.
Endure the sensation of maggots devouring my memories. The cavity in my stomach grows with a gurgle that will never be satisfied.
I choke. Sputter melancholy from my throat as it pours out my cleft chest. The glass has embedded itself in euphoria and I am withering.
Britney Driskel is a senior at Oklahoma State University. She’s majoring in psychology with a minor in creative writing and plans to pursue creative writing for her career. Among various topics including LGBTQ+ and feminism, she writes speculative fiction, dark fantasy, historical fiction, poetry, and more.