Outback the woodshed, silos stacked inside the sky, burrowing for some winter. Fog, a thick persian runner on the foyer of the forest, rolling and suffocating the hills as a wild dog gnaws through a deer carcass with just his front teeth, stopping bite only to nudge the few fat bits to the hard ground. My love looks like this. And there's nothing for me to do except howl until a bad woman hears: a woman who will never ask why I don't call, who doesn't call either, pooling drool in the pockets of my mouth, leave me slobbering, sniffing for one taste and kicking me off couch with just a heel because she knows go fetch is more fun. I dream of a lover and I moving from room to room noses to the ground, hunting each other for the sport of dimension: How much is too much? It's true I need a bad woman with a cat tail tied to one paw and a bowknife balanced on her head, a fat mouth so I know before the first snarl that she'll tear my organs and spit blood, easy, back into the sink basin. I need a bad woman. I need a hound.
Erintrude Pieta lives in North Carolina. Her work can be found in storySouth, Fourteen Hills, and The Sierra Nevada Review.