ISSUE 4

Riley Gable

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Blood Moon

 

On the lip of my fourteenth birthday, 

roadkill littered State Street so dense,

it became a bike-less summer.  Little raccoon

paws stiff-up towards sky, bodies bent

and bloating, god, the bloating, but

better bloat than burst, hot steam

baked the season sour. I spent summer break 

indoors: squinting through the static 

of pay per view to get glimpses of Girls Gone

Wild, little bits of topless blur through

packed black and white scramble,

clicking the remote “back” button

when I heard a creak of stairs. Despite

the strength of our A/C unit, I stayed sweat

slick, panting. Later, that winter, I would

start my period. That, of course, explained

the symptoms. The insatiable hunger: 

shoveling semi-sweet morsels by the hand-full, 

half of my animal face eerily lit by midnight fridge 

light. The bouts of fury: stifled screams, mashing 

my teeth against a pillow until my muscles 

wore themselves soft. Mostly, I remember the

betrayal of my body: ensnared desire

coiled so tight it turned to bloat, it pleaded to burst.

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