Illustrations by Monta Lū Lapiņa
At the crossing there ruled a specist hegemony. Limbs like
whiffed near the little sparrow’s head. She waddled around those wrecking balls of meat. And next to her was a clump.
More rot than bird, tire tracks were now its wings. So brutal, the inverse of a bird, unintended for kin or man.
As feet almost squashed her,
she kissed the leftovers of the feather forehead. The little bird then flew, ending the funeral in a stampede. I never did
Do birds cry?
It is a temporal
apple worm sort of fate, that
is no more contingent than a granite lake.
It’s tail from my 9-5 jest, its fangs
In my present pips.
Making of a huntsman
Oh my tree
blossom child, winter wave-like
eyeshadows and equally
cold stares. Silently
screaming with a closed
mouth. Who ghosts
trough out alone. Do not
waste your lungs
to ponder. Wolfs of
now might starve with summer, but
the hounds of old will
continue to hunt. Alas
not sap drop of pitty
do you deserve. You in
cherry cyanide light who
washes in tears of sugar.
The lycans will at last
tear your ephemeral skin. And you’ll
learn to slay beasts like man was meant to