I hushed my child, remembered
the fallen squirrel who wouldn’t cry
and how we played hours of recorded wails
until its mother heard,
pulled it from our dried fruits, nuts,
towels, capful of water, and fled. I hushed my child.
I’d left the back door unlocked, forgotten
what was coming for us:
the man on his hunt. Through the hall
he hauled a fresh woman by the wrists, her knees
collected to her belly, her body
a supplicant teardrop. No body
should move like that. I thought,
she looks like a carcass;
I thought, she looks like me;
I thought, he is generous
with the pain he gives.
Moa Short is a queer writer from Atlanta currently living in Washington, DC with her family. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Nonfiction at American University.