March 1, 2008
Mar 1, 2008
If this bed is the tracks I’m tied to, you
can’t be lax at this crux of our junction.
You must be able, like a wolf, to smell fear,
to leer like a wolf at the length of my legs.
These are the legs that got me here.
These are the teeth I use to bite you,
or rather used, when I used to bite you,
leaving you bruised in little heart shapes
on your vocal box. What can I say?
Tonight is the happiest day of my life.
While we have you...
...we need your help. You might have noticed the absence of paywalls at Boston Review. We are committed to staying free for all our readers. Now we are going one step further to become completely ad-free. This means you will always be able to read us without roadblocks or barriers to entry. It also means that we count on you, our readers, for support. If you like what you read here, help us keep it free for everyone by making a donation. No amount is too small. You will be helping us cultivate a public sphere that honors pluralism of thought for a diverse and discerning public.
March 01, 2008