summer of ‘13

i ate a fox head, once, in the same home that i shot a deer, in the same home that i gnawed off my leg like a bitch cause it was causing problems; i dreamt of a two headed rabbit that broke its own limbs in the same home that i prophesied the removal of my teeth with a pair of pliers, in the same home that i felt the presence of a man before i knew he lived under my sheets & in my shower, in the same home that i held a gun like you’re taught to and let the wasps sting me and felt the fear so often that i didn’t feel it; like a tumor i ate at myself and the things around me til it seemed that ants had infested the home, famished with weight and fury, and nothing whole was left.

Catherine Windham is a poet on the east coast who appreciates her cat, used bookstores, and borrowing t-shirts with few intentions of returning them. Her work is published in Pulp Poet’s Press and Tongue Tied Mag, among other places, and she can be found on twitter at @healingsoft.