First, the beast showed up in the middle  
of the night, entered the gates without 

a sound, sauntering through the field as if 
this was its home, my own home. Then came

the day and refused to absolve me of my girlhood, 
which was also its own. Its lovely face filled 

the streets of my imagination, & though we are  
both exhausted, it is just getting started. It does not

know what it wants with me. Its gaze, other-worldly,  
carrying with itself the portals to my other-selves

who await us patiently, bearers of thorns and honey, 
always speaking without uttering a word, leading me

to my many crucifixions, until I am readied for my own 
wanting. It has been told before, the tale of the beast 

and the man, the beast and man, the beastman. Man  
with too many eyes, limbs far reaching beyond its moat. 

I cannot say I did not see the signs; I cannot say  
I did not sleep with a sharp blade clutched in my fists. 

When, finally, the day of the awakening comes, I rise 
girl no more. Instead, I am another, I am other. 

And the gnawing has just begun. 

My boyfriend will eat
an entire apple in one sitting.
Peel, pulp, core. Hands me
the stem when he’s done.
Seeds in his gut. The calyx
a dank star. An orchard grows
inside him. The tongue
that slicks the skin. Hands
perfumed with bruised sugar.
His kisses a tender lament.
The heart that glows. How he takes
everything the fruit offers
and leaves nothing
but the stem. I let my body
follow. Set my jaw soft.
Rapt, greedy, this devotion.
Tough armor. Red glow. Yellow
flesh. Every bite a fall
from grace.

First, there was nothing, then there was me.
Hot summer day. Cosby Show on repeat.
Patriarch in his sweaters.
Dropping bygone knowledge.
His only son wasn’t listening.
“Theo” would’ve fit me, but my mother 
& John Travolta. Welcome Back, Kotter. 
Maybe he’ll be a heartthrob,  she said. 
Locks that go on forever.
My father:  Maybe he’ll be a conqueror,
but he’s got such a pale color.
Namesakes, bad omens,
he scoffed as he held me. Foreigner
on the radio: I want to know what love is.
The world, even then, was burning.
Refugees moved. Trains derailed.
Futures hijacked. We patted ourselves on the back
for the lasting peace we had made.
Grandfathers chomping cigars, shaking hands,
saying  look at what we have made.
Bloodline secure. Which
halfway through existence,
I see the value of more
& more. Studies show
our lifespans are extending
all the time. We’re living
more than we’re dying. I’m sorry,
my father failed to see it. He lived
with abandon. I forgive him,
for when he panicked & ran.
What we do when we see our own mortality.
My mother liked to say, like mothers often say,
you were lucky to be born here.  Now. At this time.
I wonder how that first cigarette, that first Tab
with my aunt tasted when I was milkfed
& she had time for herself again.
Good. The chances were good.
We knew what love is.

The shadow I cast when I stand  
in the sun has disappeared
beneath the trees, shadows
of crows over the roof
of the post office, or the field
of clover they fly above, throats
open, stitching the world
together with a fine thread,
doing the work of belonging.
Nothing is too trivial to love
enough to walk toward it,
your footsteps leaving 
badges on the earth, even
the nettles that chafe
your ankles worthy of love,
sparks of pain, like your
shadow, that prove
you’re alive.